Patrix sent me a link to an article from 'Escape from America' titled "The top 20 reasons not to move to Dubai". With a title like that you can expect an impassioned, biased diatribe and the author doesn't disappoint.
"There are so many things wrong with this place that I have decided to compile a list, a must read if you are considering a potential move to Dubai."
Some of the reasons she lists are laughable, some questionable, and some, well, have a modicum of truth. But I don't think these are reasons 'not to move to Dubai'. Having lived here for a little over 2 years, I don't consider myself an expert on the place. But since this is my adopted home (for now), and since I really do like it, I'm going to challenge some of these reasons.
(I'm just picking sentences from the long rant on each reason. If you want to read the entire article, click on the link above.)
1. There is no standard address system making mail-to-the door delivery impossible. In fact, it makes anything nearly impossible...
There is an efficient address system, which unfortunately isn't promoted as well as it should be. Every street has a sign with a community number and street number displayed on it and there's a number on every building/villa. I've been asked for these details when calling for a taxi, and having supplied them, I've not had a problem at all. I'll admit though that it's not a popular system, and most often one still ends up giving directions of the 'take-first-left-and-then-right-at-petrol-pump' variety.
2. The government blocks all web sites that it deems “offensive” to the “religious, moral, and cultural values” of the UAE. That’s hard to swallow for a freedom loving American, but I get it...
This freedom loving Indian still doesn't get it. I've blogged about this here. It still strikes me as plain unnecessary and Big Brotherly.
I do not understand, however, why all VOIP access and related web sites are blocked.... The government says VOIP is blocked for security reasons...
I haven't followed the VOIP debate, but from what I've heard, the reasons are not so much national interest as economic interests. More specifically, Etisalat's economic interest.
3. It is really hot outside...
Is this even a reason? It's a desert, for crying out loud. What were you expecting?
In the last two years I've been here, I've found people generate more sweat anticipating the summer and griping about it, than they actually spend time in the sun. I'll tell you what's infinitely worse than the heat and humidity. And that's the darned air-conditioning. It's actually quite easy to forget that you live in a desert because of near-freezing conditions everywhere - buildings, malls, cars, even corridors. In an attempt to apologise for the weather, air-conditioners are cranked up to the max everywhere, ironically generating more heat outside. Ever tried walking from a sub-artic mall into a stifling carpark and you'll know what I mean. It ought to rate as a health hazard in my opinion! The only ones to feel the real brunt of summer are the labourers working outside on construction sites, and you don't hear them complaining, do you?
4. There are too few trees, plants, and grass – or living things aside from us crazy humans, for that matter...
It's true. But like I said before, it's a desert. Expecting a rainforest in the middle of the place is a bit unrealistic. There's a certain starkness which one learns to appreciate. If you really want to see greenery, try the oases of Al Ain, try the soothing calm of Zabeel Park, try the expanses of Mamzar Park. Just step off the beaten Sheikh Zayed/Jumeirah road, and you might be surprised.
5. This country prides itself so much on its glitz and glamour that it put a picture of its 7-star hotel on the license plate....
For the record, it doesn't happen anymore.
...Yet, the public toilets in the king-of-bling Gold Souk district are holes in the ground with no toilet paper or soap.
I haven't been to the toilets in the Gold Souk, but most of the public toilets I've been to in malls and buildings (and I've been to a few. Remember the powerful ACs I mentioned above?) are extremely clean and well-maintained. It's unfair to judge toilets all over the UAE by an experience in the the toilets in Gold Souk.
6. This country encourages businesses to hire people from other poor countries to come here and work. They have them sign contracts that are a decade long and then take their passports....
They live crammed in portables with tons of others, in highly unsanitary conditions... Things are so bad that a number of laborers are willing to throw themselves in front of cars because their death would bring their family affluence in the form of diya, blood money paid to the victim’s family as mandated by the government...
Exploitation is rampant. And although there are noises made from time to time about improving the workers' lot, one gets the feeling that it isn't enough to correct the problem. It's a sad life for a labourer, but will not living in Dubai change this problem? I don't know.
7. Things are not cheaper here. I’m sick of people saying that. The only thing cheaper here is labor. Yes, you can have a maid – but a bag of washed lettuce will cost you almost $10.
The cost of living has gone up, for sure. I've heard of times when people could save up to 60% of their salary. Obviously, those times has passed. It's tough if you're a single earning member and have children to raise. Having said that, you only have to take one look at the groaning trolleys at the supermarket checkout queues or at the throngs in malls on any day of the week to figure out that people can obviously afford the lifestyle.
8. There are traffic cameras everywhere. I consider this cheating. Where are the damn cops?... Speeding even just a couple of kilometers over will get you fined....
There's enough rash driving, so I don't get the problem about 'traffic cameras everywhere'.
Forget to pay the bill and your car will be impounded....
Not true, unless you've done something stupid like jump a red light or drive on the hard shoulder.
9. The clothing some of these women wear makes no sense to me. I understand that as part of your religion you are required to dress in a particular way, but a black robe over your jeans and turtleneck and cover your head when it is 120 degrees outside?...
Live and let live, I say. And be thankful that you're not in Saudi Arabia where everyone has to wear a veil outside the residential compounds irrespective of their religion.
10. People stare at you. I’m stared at by men who have never seen a fair-skinned blue-eyed woman before, or who have and think we are all prostitutes so it’s okay to stare. They stare at me when I am fully covered or with my husband, and even follow me around.
Yes, there are men who will stare, and there's a fair bit of harassment on the public beaches. But, given my experience of Bombay, I find Dubai to be a much safer city for a woman. I've been able to walk down roads well past midnight and haven't been accosted. (It depends on the area too. I wouldn't go walking in areas I didn't feel comfortable in.) I've taken taxis home late at night, and sometimes I worry that I've let down my guard too much and taken safety for granted.
The staring is not limited to men, either. I’m stared at angrily by female prostitutes who think I am running in on their territory by having a few drinks with my husband at the bar.
LOL!
11. Prostitutes? Oh hell yes, there are prostitutes. Tons of them. So, let me get this straight, I can’t look at a naked picture of a person on the Internet in the privacy of my home, but it is okay to go out in public and buy a few for the night?
Paradox, thy name is Dubai.
12. Alcohol can only be sold in hotels and a handful of private clubs. A person must own a liquor license to consume in the privacy of their own home....
This can be a serious bummer, I tell you. But then, there are ways around it... :)
13. Not only do you have to get your boss’s approval to obtain a liquor license, but you must also get the company’s approval to rent property, have a telephone, or get satellite TV.
Like there's no red tape in other places...
14. If I see one more kid standing up and waving to me out the back window while flying down the road at 160 kph…whatever happened to seatbelts?
This rant is beginning to run out of steam, don't you think?
15. When is the weekend again?... Anyway you slice it, Sundays are workdays and little business can be accomplished Thursday through Saturday.
It takes a while getting used to weekends on Friday and Saturday, and a work week beginning on Sunday, but a weekend starting on Thursday night - a whole day ahead of the rest of the world - is a joy beyond compare. Everything's a matter of perspective, I tell you.
16. There are few satellite television operators:. The movie channels play movies that are old and outdated.
Try the cinemas. Or video libraries. Heck, if nothing else, there's always 'Wang' - the goot carpy deeveedee (good copy DVD) guy around the corner.
The TV commercials are repeated so often that I am determined NOT to buy anything I see advertised on television here just for the principle of it.
No, please please don't do this. Unless you want to see me out of a job!
17. The roads are horribly designed. Driving ten minutes out of the way to make a U-turn is not uncommon... Miss it and you’ll likely end up on the other side of town before you are able to turn around and go back.
Heh. This reminds me of the time I drove halfway to Abu Dhabi before I could figure out the exit to Dubai. Like I said before, I know there's a method in the maze of roads. The exits are numbered, the direction signs are in place. Except that the RTA hasn't campaigned extensively to explain how it works.
18. Taxi drivers are dangerous and smell... Many of these drivers have just as much difficulty finding their way around as you do, but add to this a third-world country driving style and extreme exhaustion and, well, remember to buckle up for safety...
Well, you get all kinds. I've come across charming taxi drivers and cantankerous ones, silent ones and garrulous ones, those who'll pour out their woes, and those who'll attempt to counsel you about life in Dubai, especially if they find out you're a newbie. If smell is a problem, keep a tissue handy.
19. Speeding is an Emirati sport and Emirates Road is just an extension of the Dubai Autodrome.... Local nationals are somehow able to get the sun-protecting dark window tint denied to us lowly expats and use it to hide their faces as they tailgate you incessantly at unbelievably high speeds, their lights flickering on and off and horn blaring repeatedly.
The UAE has one of the higher road accident rates. Despite speed radars, heavy penalties and threats of deportation, the problems continue. To be honest, I've heard stories of bad drivers and bad driving more than I've experienced it. So, I'll just take this lady's word on it.
20. Dubai is far from environmentally friendly... Consider the waste that occurs from erecting buildings on top of these sand monsters and from the people that occupy them coupled with the lack of an effective recycling program and you have an environmental disaster on your hands. Add to this more gas guzzling SUVs than fuel-efficient cars on the road and the need for 24-hour powerful air-conditioning and its evident that the environment is not high on the priority list of the UAE.
Here's where I whole-heartedly agree with the author. I've been to a Recycling Centre on three occasions in the past month to drop off empty plastic bottles. And each time the machine's been out of order, and no one knows when it will be fixed. There are no convenient newspaper recycling centres, and you've got to really work hard if you want to be environmentally conscious. Especially when people scoff at your efforts.
So while I’m sure there are benefits to living in Dubai, tax breaks, multi-cultural environments, and beautiful buildings aside, reconsider your plans to move here if any of the above mentioned reasons strikes a chord within you.
Yes, please reconsider. There are already enough people who come here and whine endlessly and weigh down people who want to enjoy what the city has to offer, and figure out what they have to offer to the city.
Dubai is a city caught in an identity crisis. Struggling somewhere between its desire to be a playground for the rich and its adherence to traditional Islamic roots, rests a city that lacks sufficient infrastructure to support its delusions of grandeur. Visit if you must, but leave quickly before you are sucked into its calamitous void.
Really?
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Prayer for today
O God, give me an endless road, and Al di Meola and Paco de Lucia for company.
Now listening to:
Race with the Devil on a Spanish Highway
La Malaguena
Mediterranean Sundance
Malaguena Salerosa
Tango Flamenco
… and some other Latin jazz which goes down smooooooooothhhher than tequila.
Now listening to:
Race with the Devil on a Spanish Highway
La Malaguena
Mediterranean Sundance
Malaguena Salerosa
Tango Flamenco
… and some other Latin jazz which goes down smooooooooothhhher than tequila.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Just one of those weird moments
Time: 7:30 p.m.
Location: The elevator in the office building
I enter and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors open on the 1st floor and a guy enters carrying two enormous garbage bags filled with what looks like shredded paper. He apologises, and I nod. I have no idea what he’s just apologized for. The elevator is fairly large and dry garbage is hardly a bother. As the elevator heads past the mezzanine floor, he turns to me and asks, “You want paint for your fingers?” I look at him and even before I’ve processed the meaning of the question, I shake my head firmly, my ‘I-don’t-talk-to-strangers’ face falling into place. “For leg?” the man persists, although he’s now fairly sure of the answer, because he’s shaking his head and saying no to himself. The doors open and I quickly put as much distance between the janitor-painter and myself before I ask, “Did he mean ‘pain’ by any chance?”
Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?
Location: The elevator in the office building
I enter and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors open on the 1st floor and a guy enters carrying two enormous garbage bags filled with what looks like shredded paper. He apologises, and I nod. I have no idea what he’s just apologized for. The elevator is fairly large and dry garbage is hardly a bother. As the elevator heads past the mezzanine floor, he turns to me and asks, “You want paint for your fingers?” I look at him and even before I’ve processed the meaning of the question, I shake my head firmly, my ‘I-don’t-talk-to-strangers’ face falling into place. “For leg?” the man persists, although he’s now fairly sure of the answer, because he’s shaking his head and saying no to himself. The doors open and I quickly put as much distance between the janitor-painter and myself before I ask, “Did he mean ‘pain’ by any chance?”
Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Got a flat, mate?
The flatmate's moving out in a couple of days. And I guess I should be used to it, considering the number of them who've moved in and out in the last 23 months I've been here. When the German couple moved out - the first of the lot to do so - I felt a little bereft. I'd gotten used to their friendly yet non-interfering presence. Cursory conversations in the kitchen, polite smiles in the passage - that was the extent of our interaction. It matched perfectly with my need for solitude.
Next came the fairy-tale girls - Cinderella and Snow White. I'm not kidding about one of those names. They came in and shook up the somnolent establishment from the first day itself. I entered the house to find all the bathroom paraphernalia on the floor in the passage. "We've got a cleaner to spruce up the bathroom," said one of them, "it was such a mess." It most certainly wasn't. The Germans were neat to a fault, and I'm quite particular myself. I was partly-miffed but also partly-relieved to have orderly flatmates.
That initial burst of tidiness concealed a rather contrary sloppiness which I discovered in the months that followed. There were other quirks as well - cooking after 11 p.m., canoodling with boyfriends outside the elevator and so on. It didn't bother me much because I kept to myself.
One of them moved out shortly, and a friend's friend moved in. She'd hit a rough patch and needed support and encouragement. I introduced her to friends, extended a shoulder when needed, and also allowed her unlimited access to my fiercely-guarded bookshelf. Things changed for her, and then changed some more and she decided to head back to India.
I wasn't looking forward to adjusting to new flatmates. And as fate ordained, I didn't have to. I got a new flatmate alright, but this was someone familiar. I could walk into his room and demand a packet of chips or harangue him with laptop woes, as well as throw a fit at unwashed utensils. There were days when I didn't see him and there were days when I woke him just to have a conversation. We had fights and arguments, and days of stonewalled silence, as well as moments of quiet friendship. Who'd have thought an intolerable younger brother could make a perfect flatmate?
Life moves on, and a new flatmate might soon move in. I'm not looking forward to it, but am not dreading it either.
Next came the fairy-tale girls - Cinderella and Snow White. I'm not kidding about one of those names. They came in and shook up the somnolent establishment from the first day itself. I entered the house to find all the bathroom paraphernalia on the floor in the passage. "We've got a cleaner to spruce up the bathroom," said one of them, "it was such a mess." It most certainly wasn't. The Germans were neat to a fault, and I'm quite particular myself. I was partly-miffed but also partly-relieved to have orderly flatmates.
That initial burst of tidiness concealed a rather contrary sloppiness which I discovered in the months that followed. There were other quirks as well - cooking after 11 p.m., canoodling with boyfriends outside the elevator and so on. It didn't bother me much because I kept to myself.
One of them moved out shortly, and a friend's friend moved in. She'd hit a rough patch and needed support and encouragement. I introduced her to friends, extended a shoulder when needed, and also allowed her unlimited access to my fiercely-guarded bookshelf. Things changed for her, and then changed some more and she decided to head back to India.
I wasn't looking forward to adjusting to new flatmates. And as fate ordained, I didn't have to. I got a new flatmate alright, but this was someone familiar. I could walk into his room and demand a packet of chips or harangue him with laptop woes, as well as throw a fit at unwashed utensils. There were days when I didn't see him and there were days when I woke him just to have a conversation. We had fights and arguments, and days of stonewalled silence, as well as moments of quiet friendship. Who'd have thought an intolerable younger brother could make a perfect flatmate?
Life moves on, and a new flatmate might soon move in. I'm not looking forward to it, but am not dreading it either.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Space Wanted
1 bamboo arrangement
1 Thesaurus
1 cellotape dispenser
1 Post-It note
1 mobile phone holder
I pen holder
4 coasters
3 thimble sized ceramic pots
1 Gary Larson calendar
1 photo frame
14 magazines that's been on the reading list for months
8 supplements from the weekend newspapers
1 notepad
1 job allocation notebook
1 envelope with certificates
And that's only the assortment on the desk.
The 3 side-table drawers are groaning with paraphernalia ranging from stale biscuits to DVDs, newspaper cuttings to invitations to bygone events, interior design magazines to odds 'n ends which have grown pale from the sustained absence of sunlight.
Tomorrow, all of that's going to be packed in a carton and moved to the new office a floor below. I haven't seen my new work station, but I've already requisitioned extra storage space...
An early post on the collection junkie here
1 Thesaurus
1 cellotape dispenser
1 Post-It note
1 mobile phone holder
I pen holder
4 coasters
3 thimble sized ceramic pots
1 Gary Larson calendar
1 photo frame
14 magazines that's been on the reading list for months
8 supplements from the weekend newspapers
1 notepad
1 job allocation notebook
1 envelope with certificates
And that's only the assortment on the desk.
The 3 side-table drawers are groaning with paraphernalia ranging from stale biscuits to DVDs, newspaper cuttings to invitations to bygone events, interior design magazines to odds 'n ends which have grown pale from the sustained absence of sunlight.
Tomorrow, all of that's going to be packed in a carton and moved to the new office a floor below. I haven't seen my new work station, but I've already requisitioned extra storage space...
An early post on the collection junkie here
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
That Human Touch
Circa 2004
Tucked in between clammy bodies, bony knees, knobby elbows and a profusion of body odours, I attempt to stay erect and concentrate on the book in my hand, as the train lurches from station to station. Somebody's wrist connects with my ear while straining for the overhead rack. A fierce scowl to the wrist's owner doesn't elicit more than a sheepish look. Muttering dark imprecations, I return to the book, reading the same paragraph three times before focus returns. 'Side pliss', the portly lady with the basket of chikoos rasps through broken, paan-stained teeth. I'm tempted to stand my ground, but seeing her plump elbows aimed like missiles at my ribcage, I capitulate, and lean back into the tall lady with jasmines in her fuzzy hair, while the chikoo lady oozes past. The former delivers a swift elbow jab into my back for the sudden, unwelcome pressure while the latter impales me with the same bulbous elbow I was trying to avoid. For a brief moment, there are four elbows connected to my body, and it's a matter of time before there are a few more, as I squirm and displace some of the other bodies in that ring of humanity...
Circa 2007
I step out my building and amble over to the car park. The remote control unlocks the door while I'm a few feet away. Despite the summer heat, the car's cool inside, as I'd managed to park under the solitary tree overlooking the parking bay. I toss my bag on the passenger seat while simultaneously turning on the ignition. The AC leaps into action. I plug my iPod into the car dock, and Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy' rolls into the cool, quiet space. I head out over the Bridge. A sedan slips into the small gap between my car and the one ahead. My foot automatically leans on the brake; my mind's far away. After the signal, I indicate and ease into the lane on the right. Thhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gife route's comfortably familiar, and providentially, against traffic. Regular glances in the rear and side-view mirrors ensure that I'm not veering too close to another vehicle and vice versa. At the signal, I notice the car in front of mine has a cracked bumper. The blue one on the left needs a paint job. I notice my agency's ad pasted upside down on the taxi up ahead. I make a mental note to inform someone at work. 15 minutes later, I pull into the sandlot opposite my office building. A curious thought occurs to me: it's possible to travel on a busy road every single day and yet not see a single human being. There's a twinge of unease when it strikes me that I can recall cars I've passed but not who was at the wheel.
The Dubai Metro will be up and running next year. Maybe I'll buy a season ticket for old times' sake.
Tucked in between clammy bodies, bony knees, knobby elbows and a profusion of body odours, I attempt to stay erect and concentrate on the book in my hand, as the train lurches from station to station. Somebody's wrist connects with my ear while straining for the overhead rack. A fierce scowl to the wrist's owner doesn't elicit more than a sheepish look. Muttering dark imprecations, I return to the book, reading the same paragraph three times before focus returns. 'Side pliss', the portly lady with the basket of chikoos rasps through broken, paan-stained teeth. I'm tempted to stand my ground, but seeing her plump elbows aimed like missiles at my ribcage, I capitulate, and lean back into the tall lady with jasmines in her fuzzy hair, while the chikoo lady oozes past. The former delivers a swift elbow jab into my back for the sudden, unwelcome pressure while the latter impales me with the same bulbous elbow I was trying to avoid. For a brief moment, there are four elbows connected to my body, and it's a matter of time before there are a few more, as I squirm and displace some of the other bodies in that ring of humanity...
Circa 2007
I step out my building and amble over to the car park. The remote control unlocks the door while I'm a few feet away. Despite the summer heat, the car's cool inside, as I'd managed to park under the solitary tree overlooking the parking bay. I toss my bag on the passenger seat while simultaneously turning on the ignition. The AC leaps into action. I plug my iPod into the car dock, and Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy' rolls into the cool, quiet space. I head out over the Bridge. A sedan slips into the small gap between my car and the one ahead. My foot automatically leans on the brake; my mind's far away. After the signal, I indicate and ease into the lane on the right. Thhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gife route's comfortably familiar, and providentially, against traffic. Regular glances in the rear and side-view mirrors ensure that I'm not veering too close to another vehicle and vice versa. At the signal, I notice the car in front of mine has a cracked bumper. The blue one on the left needs a paint job. I notice my agency's ad pasted upside down on the taxi up ahead. I make a mental note to inform someone at work. 15 minutes later, I pull into the sandlot opposite my office building. A curious thought occurs to me: it's possible to travel on a busy road every single day and yet not see a single human being. There's a twinge of unease when it strikes me that I can recall cars I've passed but not who was at the wheel.
The Dubai Metro will be up and running next year. Maybe I'll buy a season ticket for old times' sake.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Just in case you wanted my opinion
In response to my post - Facebook Face off - I received an email from Brian which I've reproduced here.
Like I said in my post, I'm not too keen on numerous applications on my profile. And I like to keep my documents, photos and files offline. But if any of you find it helpful, just run along and add it.
Anyone out there wants me to review a Business Class trip to Paris? Or an opera in Venice? Or an evening with Christian Bale? Just let me know, ok.
My name is Brian and I'm an intern at Box.net ( www.box.net). I wanted to let you know about Box.net's new Facebook Files application. It lets people manage all of their documents, photos, and files online so they can access them from anywhere, or share them with friends on Facebook or on their profile. You can take a look at it here:
http://www.facebook.com/apps/application.php?id=2220202359
Like I said in my post, I'm not too keen on numerous applications on my profile. And I like to keep my documents, photos and files offline. But if any of you find it helpful, just run along and add it.
Anyone out there wants me to review a Business Class trip to Paris? Or an opera in Venice? Or an evening with Christian Bale? Just let me know, ok.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Yay!
It's been an unprecedented 7-post week. It started out as a self-dare. I was curious to see if I could find something to write about every day. And I found that it wasn't as difficult as I'd imagined. Let's see how it goes from here...
(Ok, ok, I cheated with the date on this one. But that's only because it was the weekend and I don't have a net connection at home.)
(Ok, ok, I cheated with the date on this one. But that's only because it was the weekend and I don't have a net connection at home.)
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Facebook Face off
For the two of you who don't know about Facebook, it's a bit like a college canteen that's online. You hang out, yak with friends, exchange gifts, music and photos, write graffitti, join groups - all this while bunking important stuff. In blogging terms, one could liken Facebook to the melee in the comment section of fun bloggers like Alpha, Smiley, Anita Rodricks etc. Fluff, fun and foolin' around.
Having been on Facebook and introduced several of my friends to the network, I find I'm beginning to enjoy it a bit. But some things have begun to peeve me lately. And since Facebook doesn't allow one to blow off steam, it's time for the good old blog to bear the brunt. So here goes:
Peeve # 1: Folks rush to add you on as a friend and you never hear from them again. Initially it was thrilling to find an inbox filled with friend requests - old colleagues, school mates, long forgotten college buddies, and I happily accepted requests, going so far as to customise a 'how do I know X' message. But few do anything more than add you to their burgeoning friend list. Well, if you had 150 or more friends, you wouldn't really be able to do anything more than click the 'add as friend' button, would you? And why on earth would you need 150 friends anyway? The 75 on my list make me nervous enough already.
Peeve # 2: What do you do after joining a Facebook group? You sign up with a cool group with an intriguing name - 'People Who Always Have To Spell Their Names For Other People' - but again, apart from joining the group, what else do you do? I mean, how many times can you get a laugh out of the time someone spelt your name as Leek Levers?
Peeve # 3: Where is the 'Facebook for Dummies' when you need it? I realised how complicated Facebook was when I tried to explain to a tech challenged friend how to access a photo album on my profile. It took me a few weeks before I discovered that clicking on the little 'house' icon next to the Facebook logo on one's profile unearthed what all friends had been up to. In excruciating detail. "X is now friends with P; R sent a flower to H; M has ended a relationship and is now single; V squeezed the pimple on his nose and some white stuff oozed out..."
Peeve # 4: Let's not even start on all the curious widgety things that make ones profile look like an overdone Christmas tree. It's not enough to have a Wall, one must have a Super Wall. A Poke's irritating enough, but one must add a Super Poke where you can drop kick, throw a sheep at and defenestrate people. (Defenestrate! You've got to hand it to the creators of that application.) Some of the widgets are fun, but you won't find me adding Vampires or Fortune Cookies or Fluff Friends or Pimp my Facebook in a hurry.
Peeve # 5: The online/offline distinction gets blurred once again. As with blogs where people get carried away with online personas, on Facebook people want to carry as much of their offline world online. So colleagues and neighbours get miffed if you don't accept their friend requests. I see you every day, for crying out loud. What would I want to say to you on Facebook? I even had a colleague ask me about a job on my Wall. Fortunately I hadn't added the Super Poke application or she'd have b*#@h slapped me.
Whines notwithstanding, Facebook isn't all as bad as I've made it out to be. One of my original motivations for signing up was that my taciturn teenage cousins were on Facebook. Long, impassioned mails returned with monosyllabic replies. It seemed the only way to get across was to join them on their turf. And I've gotten to see quite a different side of them. Not so much the sanitised, studious picture their parents paint of them but the wild, fun, adolescents that they are (and ought to be!)
Also Facebook helps rekindle that community feeling one experienced in college, at some workplaces and even in good old blogland. Sort of brings all your friends to the same party. Even if they happen to be clueless aunts or ex-bosses or friends who've only set up a Facebook account but don't know how to proceed from there.
Still, when it comes right down to brasstacks, it's Facebook, not face-to-face.
Having been on Facebook and introduced several of my friends to the network, I find I'm beginning to enjoy it a bit. But some things have begun to peeve me lately. And since Facebook doesn't allow one to blow off steam, it's time for the good old blog to bear the brunt. So here goes:
Peeve # 1: Folks rush to add you on as a friend and you never hear from them again. Initially it was thrilling to find an inbox filled with friend requests - old colleagues, school mates, long forgotten college buddies, and I happily accepted requests, going so far as to customise a 'how do I know X' message. But few do anything more than add you to their burgeoning friend list. Well, if you had 150 or more friends, you wouldn't really be able to do anything more than click the 'add as friend' button, would you? And why on earth would you need 150 friends anyway? The 75 on my list make me nervous enough already.
Peeve # 2: What do you do after joining a Facebook group? You sign up with a cool group with an intriguing name - 'People Who Always Have To Spell Their Names For Other People' - but again, apart from joining the group, what else do you do? I mean, how many times can you get a laugh out of the time someone spelt your name as Leek Levers?
Peeve # 3: Where is the 'Facebook for Dummies' when you need it? I realised how complicated Facebook was when I tried to explain to a tech challenged friend how to access a photo album on my profile. It took me a few weeks before I discovered that clicking on the little 'house' icon next to the Facebook logo on one's profile unearthed what all friends had been up to. In excruciating detail. "X is now friends with P; R sent a flower to H; M has ended a relationship and is now single; V squeezed the pimple on his nose and some white stuff oozed out..."
Peeve # 4: Let's not even start on all the curious widgety things that make ones profile look like an overdone Christmas tree. It's not enough to have a Wall, one must have a Super Wall. A Poke's irritating enough, but one must add a Super Poke where you can drop kick, throw a sheep at and defenestrate people. (Defenestrate! You've got to hand it to the creators of that application.) Some of the widgets are fun, but you won't find me adding Vampires or Fortune Cookies or Fluff Friends or Pimp my Facebook in a hurry.
Peeve # 5: The online/offline distinction gets blurred once again. As with blogs where people get carried away with online personas, on Facebook people want to carry as much of their offline world online. So colleagues and neighbours get miffed if you don't accept their friend requests. I see you every day, for crying out loud. What would I want to say to you on Facebook? I even had a colleague ask me about a job on my Wall. Fortunately I hadn't added the Super Poke application or she'd have b*#@h slapped me.
Whines notwithstanding, Facebook isn't all as bad as I've made it out to be. One of my original motivations for signing up was that my taciturn teenage cousins were on Facebook. Long, impassioned mails returned with monosyllabic replies. It seemed the only way to get across was to join them on their turf. And I've gotten to see quite a different side of them. Not so much the sanitised, studious picture their parents paint of them but the wild, fun, adolescents that they are (and ought to be!)
Also Facebook helps rekindle that community feeling one experienced in college, at some workplaces and even in good old blogland. Sort of brings all your friends to the same party. Even if they happen to be clueless aunts or ex-bosses or friends who've only set up a Facebook account but don't know how to proceed from there.
Still, when it comes right down to brasstacks, it's Facebook, not face-to-face.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Really want to...
Was catching up with one of my old favourites - Hugh Macleod's Gaping Void. And I discover I'm not the only one who's been irregular on the blog. Hugh explains it nicely
"With new tools like Facebook and Twitter springing up, there's no need to have a blog unless you really want to, unless you really want to devote that kind of time and effort to it."
"With new tools like Facebook and Twitter springing up, there's no need to have a blog unless you really want to, unless you really want to devote that kind of time and effort to it."
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
For the record we never gave up...
I still have the half-finished post on the Russell Peters show which I started writing a few months ago. The other half's written out in my head, now buried under layers of other incomplete pieces. Friends who've been tracking the blog have repeatedly asked why I've stopped writing. Just like that, I say. Are you ever going to write again, they persist. Maybe, I shrug. It's a habit that just fell away one day. And stayed away for five months. If not for Alison's birthday post which has become a ritual of sorts, I might have dragged my feet some more.
Coming back feels good though. Like returning to a house you once lived in, and finding it both familiar and strange. Should one attempt to recreate the old magic? Should one try something new? Ah, let's not try to figure it all out. For now, this feels good.
Let's see what new-s the blog's missed lately...
A new acquisition - the Red Devil.
A new obsession - Alternative Rock
A new passion - the gym, resulting in...
A new weakness - strained back
A new ad award - five, actually
A new close friend - T
A new history - R
A new groove - salsa
A new discipline - waking at 6
A new ritual - the Morning Pages
A new freedom - from old blighters
A new discovery - peace
Right, that sums it up.
Thanks Keya and Fairy for the 'welcome back'. And Patrix for dutifully commenting on an old post which Bloglines mysteriously posted. Thanks to all who've left a comment while I went AWOL.
Lindsey, of course I remember you!! There's no way to get in touch on your blog. Mail me or leave an i.d.
Coming back feels good though. Like returning to a house you once lived in, and finding it both familiar and strange. Should one attempt to recreate the old magic? Should one try something new? Ah, let's not try to figure it all out. For now, this feels good.
Let's see what new-s the blog's missed lately...
A new acquisition - the Red Devil.
A new obsession - Alternative Rock
A new passion - the gym, resulting in...
A new weakness - strained back
A new ad award - five, actually
A new close friend - T
A new history - R
A new groove - salsa
A new discipline - waking at 6
A new ritual - the Morning Pages
A new freedom - from old blighters
A new discovery - peace
Right, that sums it up.
Thanks Keya and Fairy for the 'welcome back'. And Patrix for dutifully commenting on an old post which Bloglines mysteriously posted. Thanks to all who've left a comment while I went AWOL.
Lindsey, of course I remember you!! There's no way to get in touch on your blog. Mail me or leave an i.d.
Monday, August 20, 2007
You know you've got good karma when...
...you arrive at Deira City Centre on a Saturday evening and nail a parking spot within 3 minutes
...you enter the mall bracing yourself for shoppers, smokers and shrieking kids, and instead are greeted by opera singers doing a mesmerising, goosebump-inducing rendition of your favourite Lakme Flower Duet.
... you end up in the shortest queue at the check out counter, and even get a smile from the checkout clerk
... you get a free parking spot not too far from your building even though it's past 11 p.m.
You know your good karma's good run is over when...
... you stagger to your door, arms quivering with grocery bags and realise you've left the keys in the car.
...you enter the mall bracing yourself for shoppers, smokers and shrieking kids, and instead are greeted by opera singers doing a mesmerising, goosebump-inducing rendition of your favourite Lakme Flower Duet.
... you end up in the shortest queue at the check out counter, and even get a smile from the checkout clerk
... you get a free parking spot not too far from your building even though it's past 11 p.m.
You know your good karma's good run is over when...
... you stagger to your door, arms quivering with grocery bags and realise you've left the keys in the car.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Seven
I picked it up on a lark. It was so kitschy, so flimsy, I thought you’d get a laugh out of it.
But I was wrong. You loved it. I could tell from your voice that you were giddy with delight. They told me you couldn’t wait to come home and get your hands on it. And once you did, you didn’t put it down for the whole weekend. Maybe you even dreamed of it at night. For someone with a short attention span, that sure counts for something.
Perhaps, if I were six and I’d been gifted a glittery tiara with fake diamantes along with a shiny, star-tipped wand, I’d have been the same. Every little girl dreams of being a princess. And given the right embellishments, namely a tiara and a wand, the gulf between the dream world and humdrum reality is finally bridged. This ‘Middle Earth’ is a lot more exciting and believable, and best of all, is free of boring, unimaginative adults.
I’m told you went around waving the wand and making wishes. I still smile when I think of the urgent ISD call only to ask me for the ‘code which unlocked the wand’. I was stumped and mumbled something about whatever magic word you use that’s the code. Your snorted at that and querulously told me that I shouldn’t keep secrets from you. You weren’t going to buy a politically correct answer for sure. My next, equally unimaginative answer - Abracadabra – you dismissed as ineffective. D-uh, I almost heard you say.
I must have thrown in a few more options, but in a moment you forgot about that, and went on to tell me that the wand Really Worked. Yes, you said with conviction, I pointed it at the TV and it came on, and I also pointed it at the fan and the fan started moving. I found myself cheering along with you, ignoring the muffled laughter I heard in the background. Of course, it works, I said. It is a magic wand.
What's magic, anyway, if not a dream coming true. And don't all dreams start with a desire, a thought. There you have it. That's the 'code', the magic phrase.
So, as you turn SEVEN today, along with all the cutesy wishes, I wish you the power and possibility of magic. Don't ever stop believing...
Earlier posts: Five & Six
But I was wrong. You loved it. I could tell from your voice that you were giddy with delight. They told me you couldn’t wait to come home and get your hands on it. And once you did, you didn’t put it down for the whole weekend. Maybe you even dreamed of it at night. For someone with a short attention span, that sure counts for something.
Perhaps, if I were six and I’d been gifted a glittery tiara with fake diamantes along with a shiny, star-tipped wand, I’d have been the same. Every little girl dreams of being a princess. And given the right embellishments, namely a tiara and a wand, the gulf between the dream world and humdrum reality is finally bridged. This ‘Middle Earth’ is a lot more exciting and believable, and best of all, is free of boring, unimaginative adults.
I’m told you went around waving the wand and making wishes. I still smile when I think of the urgent ISD call only to ask me for the ‘code which unlocked the wand’. I was stumped and mumbled something about whatever magic word you use that’s the code. Your snorted at that and querulously told me that I shouldn’t keep secrets from you. You weren’t going to buy a politically correct answer for sure. My next, equally unimaginative answer - Abracadabra – you dismissed as ineffective. D-uh, I almost heard you say.
I must have thrown in a few more options, but in a moment you forgot about that, and went on to tell me that the wand Really Worked. Yes, you said with conviction, I pointed it at the TV and it came on, and I also pointed it at the fan and the fan started moving. I found myself cheering along with you, ignoring the muffled laughter I heard in the background. Of course, it works, I said. It is a magic wand.
What's magic, anyway, if not a dream coming true. And don't all dreams start with a desire, a thought. There you have it. That's the 'code', the magic phrase.
So, as you turn SEVEN today, along with all the cutesy wishes, I wish you the power and possibility of magic. Don't ever stop believing...
Earlier posts: Five & Six
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
All that jazz...
The first thing you notice about Jamie Cullum, jazz wunderkind, is that he’s in dire need of a hair trim. For the first few minutes after he bursts forth on stage, belting out a single in his throaty voice, you can't help being distracted by the shaggy lock that hangs over his left eye almost until his chin. It stays in the way until he flicks it to the right. But the next moment, the drums roll, and his head follows. And follicular folly is back to veil his boyish face.
Jamie Cullum was the closing act of the scintillating 3-day Dubai International Jazz Festival. The acts which preceded him were big names, cool names – Acoustic Alchemy, Robin McKelle, Toto, 3 Ladies of Jazz, Freddy Cole. But in terms of sheer energy, entertainment and electricity, Jamie was unequalled. He not only played the grand piano, he drummed on the cover, and then leaped on top of the piano as the crowds gasped. He divided the audience into bass and tenor saxophone and gave each section a bar to sing. He was appreciative of the efforts – “I like the way you guys sacrifice pitch for volume.” He made everyone hold up and wave their cell phones with the screen glowing. He had everyone in splits when he crooned Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’ and ‘Don’t Cha’ by the Pussycat Dolls, adding for effect, “Don cha wish your boyfriend was short like me.”
The crowd was putty in the hands of the pint-sized entertainer. But it could also have been the effect of the copious amount of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay swirling and sloshing in people’s veins. The inky blue backdrop strung with fairy lights and swaying lazily in the breeze took on the notion of a starlit sky, adding to the mesmerism of the moment.
The mildly discordant note in the whole evening – the serpentine queues outside the women’s room, and the enviable absence of them outside the men’s. Naturally the latter couldn’t stop gloating. More than one of them stepped out with an empty bladder and smug smile saying, "Isn’t it good to be a man".
Still, it was a minor quibble, when compared to the seamless organization all through the evening. And when pitted against the fact that one had free passes to the whole show including access to the Skywards Lounge, well, then, there was no complaint at all.
Monday, March 12, 2007
And the winner is...
Wang dropped by during lunch hour today with his familiar suitcase-on-wheels. Wang's the neighbourhood DVD pirate, and with Oscarmania in the air, has made quite a killing.
"Goot movie", he mumbles encouragingly, "very goot print..." Wang's a gentleman pirate. Not only can you check the DVD quality on an office computer before making your purchase, but you can also demand an exchange if it turns out to be a dodgy print. He'll also conscientiously tell you if a movie is a "cinema print" or a "goot deeveedee copy" so that you can steer clear of the former.
If not for the fact that he was robbing them of their bloated revenues, Hollywood would have loved Wang. He promotes a Steven Seagal with as much exuberance as a Stephen Spielberg. "Very beeg movie. Everyone likes," he says for every other DVD, almost keeling over with excitement. And you can never catch him saying he doesn't have a movie, even if you're almost sure he's never heard of it.
I asked him today, "Wang, do you have Big Fish?"
"Beeg Feesh?" he echoed. His eyeballs zigzagged in their sockets as he considered my query. As his frown deepened, his eyes almost vanished into his cheekbones.
"Ah-ha!" His face lit up like a lightbulb, and he nodded furiously. He wriggled past those thumbing through his DVDs and bent over his suitcase. He rifled through a dozen or more, before turning around triumphantly, flashing his crooked teeth.
"Here Beeg Feesh," he said, handing me a print of Jaws.
"Goot movie", he mumbles encouragingly, "very goot print..." Wang's a gentleman pirate. Not only can you check the DVD quality on an office computer before making your purchase, but you can also demand an exchange if it turns out to be a dodgy print. He'll also conscientiously tell you if a movie is a "cinema print" or a "goot deeveedee copy" so that you can steer clear of the former.
If not for the fact that he was robbing them of their bloated revenues, Hollywood would have loved Wang. He promotes a Steven Seagal with as much exuberance as a Stephen Spielberg. "Very beeg movie. Everyone likes," he says for every other DVD, almost keeling over with excitement. And you can never catch him saying he doesn't have a movie, even if you're almost sure he's never heard of it.
I asked him today, "Wang, do you have Big Fish?"
"Beeg Feesh?" he echoed. His eyeballs zigzagged in their sockets as he considered my query. As his frown deepened, his eyes almost vanished into his cheekbones.
"Ah-ha!" His face lit up like a lightbulb, and he nodded furiously. He wriggled past those thumbing through his DVDs and bent over his suitcase. He rifled through a dozen or more, before turning around triumphantly, flashing his crooked teeth.
"Here Beeg Feesh," he said, handing me a print of Jaws.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Paradox
Sitting down to write is tough, these days. But there's something else that's a lot more difficult... not writing.
I'll be back, soon.
P.S. Thanks for all your comments.
I'll be back, soon.
P.S. Thanks for all your comments.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Postcards from Oz
The posts will have to wait. Until then, some visual relief...
Skydiving over Mission Beach, Cairns.
With Brent, the tandem dive instructor
The twins who couldn't get enough of the monorail.
The lookout at Blue Mountains, Sydney.
'Cow in a tree' - quirky art at the Docklands, Melbourne
Night lights in Melbourne
The Shipwreck Coast along the Great Ocean Road, Melbourne
2007 dawns over Sydney
The Esplanade at Cairns
At 'The Marriage of Figaro', Sydney Opera House
Skydiving over Mission Beach, Cairns.
With Brent, the tandem dive instructor
The twins who couldn't get enough of the monorail.
The lookout at Blue Mountains, Sydney.
'Cow in a tree' - quirky art at the Docklands, Melbourne
Night lights in Melbourne
The Shipwreck Coast along the Great Ocean Road, Melbourne
2007 dawns over Sydney
The Esplanade at Cairns
At 'The Marriage of Figaro', Sydney Opera House
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Now, Up Above
It's bizarre and immensely gratifying to note that in the first two weeks of 2007, I've been on 3 continents.
I'm back in Dubai after 3 languid weeks in Australia and a breathless week in Bombay. Part of the silence lately can be attributed to this dashing about the place, soaking in the experience and enjoying every moment of it.
"You seem different," some tell me, referring mostly to the tan. But there are some deep-rooted alterations too, I can tell. Trips unfailingly do that to me. I'm still unravelling the experience, figuring out a way to translate it all. But before I get into all of that, some of the memorable moments...
* Snorkelling in the Great Barrier Reef (definitely one of life's highlight)
* Skydiving from 14,000 feet
* Learning to surf (one very wobbly surfer there!)
* Sampling a grill consisting of kangaroo, crocodile and emu meat
* Travelling alone to Melbourne & Cairns without a map or itinerary (and in one instance without even accommodation)
* Drinking enough wine - incredibly fine Australian wine - to fill a small bathtub
* Watching a Mozart opera at the Sydney Opera House
* Getting invited to dinner by a charming Swedish septuagenarian (I politely declined)
* Getting invited to dinner by an Aussie bush tracker who was also a digeridoo player, Japanese film enthusiast and marijuana grower! (I was too intrigued to refuse.)
* Almost losing my hand luggage, almost leaving my ticket behind, almost forgetting my phone... all of this even before the flight to Sydney took off. I guess I'm lucky I got back in one piece, minus only the camera. Sigh.
The Australia Diary continues...
I'm back in Dubai after 3 languid weeks in Australia and a breathless week in Bombay. Part of the silence lately can be attributed to this dashing about the place, soaking in the experience and enjoying every moment of it.
"You seem different," some tell me, referring mostly to the tan. But there are some deep-rooted alterations too, I can tell. Trips unfailingly do that to me. I'm still unravelling the experience, figuring out a way to translate it all. But before I get into all of that, some of the memorable moments...
* Snorkelling in the Great Barrier Reef (definitely one of life's highlight)
* Skydiving from 14,000 feet
* Learning to surf (one very wobbly surfer there!)
* Sampling a grill consisting of kangaroo, crocodile and emu meat
* Travelling alone to Melbourne & Cairns without a map or itinerary (and in one instance without even accommodation)
* Drinking enough wine - incredibly fine Australian wine - to fill a small bathtub
* Watching a Mozart opera at the Sydney Opera House
* Getting invited to dinner by a charming Swedish septuagenarian (I politely declined)
* Getting invited to dinner by an Aussie bush tracker who was also a digeridoo player, Japanese film enthusiast and marijuana grower! (I was too intrigued to refuse.)
* Almost losing my hand luggage, almost leaving my ticket behind, almost forgetting my phone... all of this even before the flight to Sydney took off. I guess I'm lucky I got back in one piece, minus only the camera. Sigh.
The Australia Diary continues...
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Jingle Bells - Oz style
The carol singers had gathered. The guitarist strummed the opening notes of the familiar 'Jingle Bells'. I opened my mouth to sing along and suddenly found myself alone in the crowd. The tune hadn't changed, but the words jingled in another direction. Here's the Aussie-styled carol, with translations of the slang at the bottom.
Dashing through the bush
In a rusty Holden Ute
Kicking up the dust
Esky in the boot
Kelpie by my side
Singing Christmas songs
It's summer time and I am in
My singlet, shorts & thongs
CHORUS:
OH, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
JINGLE ALL THE WAY
CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA
ON A SCORCHING SUMMER'S DAY
JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
CHRISTMAS TIME IS BEAUT
OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE
IN A RUSTY HOLDEN UTE
Engine's getting hot
Dodge the kangaroos
Swaggy climbs aboard
He is welcome too
All the family's there
Sitting by the pool
Christmas day, the Aussie way
By the barbecue!
CHORUS
Come the afternoon
Grandpa has a doze
The kids and uncle Bruce
Are swimming in their clothes
The time comes round to go
We take a family snap
Then pack the car and all shoot through
Before the washing up
CHORUS
In the words of one of the new Australian mates: MERRY CHRISSY to all of you.
Slang translated:
Ute : utility vehicle, pickup truck
Esky : large insulated food/drink container for picnics, barbecues etc.
Kelpie : Australian sheepdog originally bred from Scottish collie
Thongs : (NOT the G-strings you're thinking of!) cheap rubber backless sandals
Swaggie : swagman, tramp, hobo
Dashing through the bush
In a rusty Holden Ute
Kicking up the dust
Esky in the boot
Kelpie by my side
Singing Christmas songs
It's summer time and I am in
My singlet, shorts & thongs
CHORUS:
OH, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
JINGLE ALL THE WAY
CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA
ON A SCORCHING SUMMER'S DAY
JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
CHRISTMAS TIME IS BEAUT
OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE
IN A RUSTY HOLDEN UTE
Engine's getting hot
Dodge the kangaroos
Swaggy climbs aboard
He is welcome too
All the family's there
Sitting by the pool
Christmas day, the Aussie way
By the barbecue!
CHORUS
Come the afternoon
Grandpa has a doze
The kids and uncle Bruce
Are swimming in their clothes
The time comes round to go
We take a family snap
Then pack the car and all shoot through
Before the washing up
CHORUS
In the words of one of the new Australian mates: MERRY CHRISSY to all of you.
Slang translated:
Ute : utility vehicle, pickup truck
Esky : large insulated food/drink container for picnics, barbecues etc.
Kelpie : Australian sheepdog originally bred from Scottish collie
Thongs : (NOT the G-strings you're thinking of!) cheap rubber backless sandals
Swaggie : swagman, tramp, hobo
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Yeeya, Down Under
The first impression about Australian currency is that it resembles craft paper – thin, smooth and colourful, with a tiny plastic window in one corner. So that when you hold it up to the light, you not only see the fearsome, handlebar-moustached gentleman on it, but can also the thin-faced, flare-nostrilled man at the money exchange counter, through it. The former gazes into eternity, the latter looks on a bit impatiently, as you pore over the notes, looking for other quaint features.
Currency apart, there’s much to marvel about Australia, as I’ve discovered in the last 2 days that I’ve been here. I’m on a 3-week vacation on the East Coast, ostensibly soaking up the summer sun. I say ‘ostensibly’ because the the summer I was told about, warned about, seems to be as much of a myth as, well, Santa Claus. As we touched down in Sydney, the pilot announced, “The temperature outside is 16 degrees, with light showers.” Having shivered through most of the 7-hour flight from Dubai to Hong Kong and the 9-hour flight from Hong Kong to Sydney, the only thought that kept me going was the toasty warmth of Sydney. I was looking forward to a ‘sunny Christmas’, and the only ‘warm’ clothing I’d packed was a denim jacket, and not a very thick one at that.
The weather may not have lived up to expectations, but the Australians certainly did. Bleary-eyed entrants to the Sydney airport were welcomed by the Salvation Army brass band playing Christmas carols. At 6:30 in the morning!
Ro, a dear old friend from pre-college days, already had her hands full with 3-year old twins. But she greeted me enthusiastically and the twins looked at me curiously. “Kirk and Jadyn, this is Leela,” she announced.
Shy smiles appeared. “Yeeya,” said Jadyn. “Yaya,” rasped Kirk, faint sounds issuing from the tube in his throat which covered his tracheostomy. His vocal chords hadn’t normalized yet, and he still needed to be fed through a tube in his stomach. But nothing stopped him from being the more boisterous of the two. Still, I couldn’t help marveling at his restraint when both were handed chocolate chip cookie, and Kirk was told gently, “Only to hold, you can’t eat it.” He wasn’t curious about eating anyway; he only wanted whatever Jadyn was being given.
Jet lag kicked in by the time we headed out to the Darling Harbour. But swiveling my head back and forth to take in the sights ensured that I didn’t nod off. Parking the car, we took the tram through stations with names out of an Enid Blyton book – Rozelle Bay, Lilyfield, Paddy’s Market...
Sitting at the Sydney Aquarium café overlooking the harbour, we noticed a well-dressed group of people – the men in black suits, the women in little black and pink numbers. The women shivered and sported gooseflesh as elegantly as possible. Some even turned a bit blue as they looked out for ‘Michelle & Vito’ – the couple who was to be married on one of the cruise boats that go around the harbour.
At another end of Darling Harbour, the Chatwoods High school orchestra performed Christmas carols and jazz medleys to a crowd of delighted children and their parents. Strollers, shoppers and tourists ambling along, spread themselves on the grass in front of the stage to watch the action. The 25-foot tall Christmas tree, aglow and animated, joined the festivities.
Day 1 in Sydney. Not a bad way to start.
Currency apart, there’s much to marvel about Australia, as I’ve discovered in the last 2 days that I’ve been here. I’m on a 3-week vacation on the East Coast, ostensibly soaking up the summer sun. I say ‘ostensibly’ because the the summer I was told about, warned about, seems to be as much of a myth as, well, Santa Claus. As we touched down in Sydney, the pilot announced, “The temperature outside is 16 degrees, with light showers.” Having shivered through most of the 7-hour flight from Dubai to Hong Kong and the 9-hour flight from Hong Kong to Sydney, the only thought that kept me going was the toasty warmth of Sydney. I was looking forward to a ‘sunny Christmas’, and the only ‘warm’ clothing I’d packed was a denim jacket, and not a very thick one at that.
The weather may not have lived up to expectations, but the Australians certainly did. Bleary-eyed entrants to the Sydney airport were welcomed by the Salvation Army brass band playing Christmas carols. At 6:30 in the morning!
Ro, a dear old friend from pre-college days, already had her hands full with 3-year old twins. But she greeted me enthusiastically and the twins looked at me curiously. “Kirk and Jadyn, this is Leela,” she announced.
Shy smiles appeared. “Yeeya,” said Jadyn. “Yaya,” rasped Kirk, faint sounds issuing from the tube in his throat which covered his tracheostomy. His vocal chords hadn’t normalized yet, and he still needed to be fed through a tube in his stomach. But nothing stopped him from being the more boisterous of the two. Still, I couldn’t help marveling at his restraint when both were handed chocolate chip cookie, and Kirk was told gently, “Only to hold, you can’t eat it.” He wasn’t curious about eating anyway; he only wanted whatever Jadyn was being given.
Jet lag kicked in by the time we headed out to the Darling Harbour. But swiveling my head back and forth to take in the sights ensured that I didn’t nod off. Parking the car, we took the tram through stations with names out of an Enid Blyton book – Rozelle Bay, Lilyfield, Paddy’s Market...
Sitting at the Sydney Aquarium café overlooking the harbour, we noticed a well-dressed group of people – the men in black suits, the women in little black and pink numbers. The women shivered and sported gooseflesh as elegantly as possible. Some even turned a bit blue as they looked out for ‘Michelle & Vito’ – the couple who was to be married on one of the cruise boats that go around the harbour.
At another end of Darling Harbour, the Chatwoods High school orchestra performed Christmas carols and jazz medleys to a crowd of delighted children and their parents. Strollers, shoppers and tourists ambling along, spread themselves on the grass in front of the stage to watch the action. The 25-foot tall Christmas tree, aglow and animated, joined the festivities.
Day 1 in Sydney. Not a bad way to start.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Turns out...
... the 'Writer by Night' is usually fast sleep. New post coming up soon. Thank you all for your vigil.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Festival City
There is a place tucked away in the folds of the raucous, colourful, congested Meena Bazaar area of Bur Dubai, fairly close to the bustling abra station. It’s a place I chanced upon quite by accident last year, and if I’ve to pick out one of my favourite places in Dubai, this would be it. There’s a grand, alabaster-hued mosque with tall spires and wide steps, and standing next to it, looking out over the creek, is an equally solemn-looking temple. A mosque and a temple. Cheek-by-jowl. Worshippers streaming out from one. Worshippers streaming into the other. I happened to stroll by last year on the eve of Diwali, which coincided with Eid-Al-Fitr. There were fairy lights all over, and people in rustling silks streamed past with platters filled with flowers and candles. Solemnity mingled with gaiety. There was something mystical in the air that evening, and I wanted to go back there this year and soak in that magic.
Things didn’t turn out as planned. We spent most of last week anticipating the moon. Or more precisely, anticipating when the Eid holidays would be declared. Would it be a 4-day break? Would we work on Sunday and have the next two days off? Could we plan the drive to Oman without knowing the actual holidays? The newspapers were scanned earnestly for more information, but like the moon, answers proved elusive.
The government employees, always the lucky ones, had no such confusion. Nine days off, I’m told. Later, I discovered some of the benefits trickled down to us luckless private sector sorts as well. The parking meters all around the city cheerfully announce, ‘FREE PARKING UNTIL 28 OCTOBER’.
There’s more: according to a newspaper article, those caught in the act of a minor traffic transgression would be spared a reprimand or a fine, and given an Eid greeting instead, courtesy the beleaguered Dubai Traffic Police. A friend also related how he received a full refund for his ticket fare on his way out of the Dubai Museum along with a Eid card.
Fireworks are banned in Dubai, but that hasn’t dimmed the ‘festival of lights’. Multi-hued fairy lights strung across balconies shimmer alluringly. A special effort is made to assert the festival, in a way, to affirm one’s identity in a city as multi-cultural as Dubai.
A colleague mailed urging us to dress in Indian attire on the lone working day wedged between the weekend and the Eid holiday. Most of us poked around the bottom of the wardrobe to pull out a rumpled kurta or sari or salwar kameez… A sporting colleague from the UK also showed up in a kurta, and there was much appreciation as well as good-natured ribbing. Several boxes of Diwali sweets in shiny, cellophane wrapping made the rounds of the office until people groaned at the sight of them.
‘Eid Mubarak’, I wished a Syrian colleague, and without a pause, he responded, ‘Happy Diwali’.
If only there was a way to spread that feeling throughout the world…
Things didn’t turn out as planned. We spent most of last week anticipating the moon. Or more precisely, anticipating when the Eid holidays would be declared. Would it be a 4-day break? Would we work on Sunday and have the next two days off? Could we plan the drive to Oman without knowing the actual holidays? The newspapers were scanned earnestly for more information, but like the moon, answers proved elusive.
The government employees, always the lucky ones, had no such confusion. Nine days off, I’m told. Later, I discovered some of the benefits trickled down to us luckless private sector sorts as well. The parking meters all around the city cheerfully announce, ‘FREE PARKING UNTIL 28 OCTOBER’.
There’s more: according to a newspaper article, those caught in the act of a minor traffic transgression would be spared a reprimand or a fine, and given an Eid greeting instead, courtesy the beleaguered Dubai Traffic Police. A friend also related how he received a full refund for his ticket fare on his way out of the Dubai Museum along with a Eid card.
Fireworks are banned in Dubai, but that hasn’t dimmed the ‘festival of lights’. Multi-hued fairy lights strung across balconies shimmer alluringly. A special effort is made to assert the festival, in a way, to affirm one’s identity in a city as multi-cultural as Dubai.
A colleague mailed urging us to dress in Indian attire on the lone working day wedged between the weekend and the Eid holiday. Most of us poked around the bottom of the wardrobe to pull out a rumpled kurta or sari or salwar kameez… A sporting colleague from the UK also showed up in a kurta, and there was much appreciation as well as good-natured ribbing. Several boxes of Diwali sweets in shiny, cellophane wrapping made the rounds of the office until people groaned at the sight of them.
‘Eid Mubarak’, I wished a Syrian colleague, and without a pause, he responded, ‘Happy Diwali’.
If only there was a way to spread that feeling throughout the world…
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Nobody's Berfect
(I've had second thoughts about the post that was here previously. In these times of heightened sensitivity, it's probably not a good idea to flaunt one's political incorrectness. Apologies if I've caused any inadvertent offence.)
Friday, October 06, 2006
Absolute Lee turns three
I've changed jobs, moved to a different country, lost someone dear to me, even sprouted a few gray hairs - all over the last three years. It’s odd then to think of this blog as being a constant in all this time.
I use the word ‘constant’ in a loose sense, of course, considering that I’ve been anything but that in the last few months. From 6 – 8 posts a month, when I started out, I barely manage 1 post a month. Quit, I’ve told myself a few times, but then I lie down and let the feeling pass. There’s a frail thread of continuity, a chronicle of mercurial time, that I’m loath to sever.
Of the multitude of bloggers that I’d started out with, only a handful remain: Rash, Alpha, Smiley, Parmanu, Patrix, Fairy… Blogging was a riot then, an obsession even. The posts were just a delectable prelude to the comments that followed. The comment-conversations would go on for days, and would end up without a jot of relevance to the original post. The conversations would spill on into emails and then, phone calls, and blogger meets. There’s less time, and lesser inclination for that now, but I still miss all you guys - Spaceman, Anita Rodricks, Subs, Uptowngirl, XXX, Aqua, Two Penny, Adi, Josephine, Aekta...
The migration to Blogspot has been on the cards for a while. I guess even the folks at Rediff have forgotten about the existence of rediffblogs. The home page hasn’t changed for probably two years, and there have been no enhancements to the Neanderthal interface since then. I’ve been waiting for Blogger to introduce categories, and when the Beta version announced categories among other features, I made haste to switch. Even with my limited tech skills, I found it incredibly simple to use. From choosing the font, to background colour to sidebar widgets, everything is easily done, without requiring advanced software skills. I was hoping for a fancier template, but I couldn’t arrange for it in time for the launch.
(Many thanks to Zigzackly for the Beta Blogger recommendation, and also to Chugs, who’s been especially patient with all my queries.)
Oh yes, some other changes as well. I guess I outgrew the 'girl-next-door...' line. I lived in terror of someone asking me what it really meant. Truthfully, I haven't figured it out and it was just something I came up with on a whim when starting the old blog. The new line is a better descriptor of me, I feel. The photograph is another whim. I'm still trying to figure out if I'm comfortable with it or not. If you don't see it in a few days, you'll know why.
Finally, a big thank you to all of you who’ve been around in the last three years, who’ve left comments and who’ve made this a great experience. Absolute Lee has been fun because of you.
Anniversary Posts 1 & 2
I use the word ‘constant’ in a loose sense, of course, considering that I’ve been anything but that in the last few months. From 6 – 8 posts a month, when I started out, I barely manage 1 post a month. Quit, I’ve told myself a few times, but then I lie down and let the feeling pass. There’s a frail thread of continuity, a chronicle of mercurial time, that I’m loath to sever.
Of the multitude of bloggers that I’d started out with, only a handful remain: Rash, Alpha, Smiley, Parmanu, Patrix, Fairy… Blogging was a riot then, an obsession even. The posts were just a delectable prelude to the comments that followed. The comment-conversations would go on for days, and would end up without a jot of relevance to the original post. The conversations would spill on into emails and then, phone calls, and blogger meets. There’s less time, and lesser inclination for that now, but I still miss all you guys - Spaceman, Anita Rodricks, Subs, Uptowngirl, XXX, Aqua, Two Penny, Adi, Josephine, Aekta...
The migration to Blogspot has been on the cards for a while. I guess even the folks at Rediff have forgotten about the existence of rediffblogs. The home page hasn’t changed for probably two years, and there have been no enhancements to the Neanderthal interface since then. I’ve been waiting for Blogger to introduce categories, and when the Beta version announced categories among other features, I made haste to switch. Even with my limited tech skills, I found it incredibly simple to use. From choosing the font, to background colour to sidebar widgets, everything is easily done, without requiring advanced software skills. I was hoping for a fancier template, but I couldn’t arrange for it in time for the launch.
(Many thanks to Zigzackly for the Beta Blogger recommendation, and also to Chugs, who’s been especially patient with all my queries.)
Oh yes, some other changes as well. I guess I outgrew the 'girl-next-door...' line. I lived in terror of someone asking me what it really meant. Truthfully, I haven't figured it out and it was just something I came up with on a whim when starting the old blog. The new line is a better descriptor of me, I feel. The photograph is another whim. I'm still trying to figure out if I'm comfortable with it or not. If you don't see it in a few days, you'll know why.
Finally, a big thank you to all of you who’ve been around in the last three years, who’ve left comments and who’ve made this a great experience. Absolute Lee has been fun because of you.
Anniversary Posts 1 & 2
Saturday, September 30, 2006
The road to Jebel Hafeet
A few years ago, while on a trek in Ladakh, I stood enraptured at the Advanced Base Camp of the peak Stok Kangri. At 17,000 feet, it was the highest I'd ever been, and my quickened breathing wasn't because of the thin air alone.
Last weekend, standing on top of Jebel Hafeet, the highest point in the UAE, I felt a faint stirring of that old magic. True, the altitude bore no comparisons. At 4,000 feet, Jebel Hafeet was more molehill than mountain. Still, the thrill of feeling a step away from the sky, of being surrounded by jagged outlines of mountains, of looking down at the city with an omniscient gaze - all of it more than made up for the lack of altitude for someone afflicted by acute mountain deprivation.
"The journey is the destination," announced my philosophical friend, M, who was also the guide on this trip. M has cris-crossed the length and breadth of the UAE in his tiny but trusty Mini Cooper, and had been coaxing me to do the drive for a while. My 3-month old car was raring to get out of the traffic-clogged city limits and tear away on the highways. Things came together last weekend. When most of Dubai was napping away the afternoon heat, five of us and two cars set off for Jebel Hafeet, on the outskirts of Al Ain.
The route between Dubai and Al Ain might have been drawn using a ruler, so rarely does it meander. And that's what made it an absolute pleasure to drive on. Empty roads and a speed limit of 120 - it was everything a newbie driver hoped for. Sand dunes rose and fell like waves on either side of the 6-lane highway. The horizon was mercifully exempt from towering half-finished structures, which dotted so much of Dubai.
Two hours and a couple of rest stops later, we reached the first of the roundabouts which announced our entry into Al Ain. Some of the roundabouts seemed familiar from my previous trip to Al Ain six months ago. But the circuitous route soon turned into a maze and I lost sight of the car I was supposed to be trailing.
Perhaps it was a case of 'bringing the mountain to Mohammed' but even as I was searching for a way to retrace my steps, I saw a sign up ahead which read 'Jebel Hafeet". Quite serendipitously, I found myself at the base of, what has been adjudged, 'the world's greatest driving road'.
Photo courtesy: www.edmunds.com
The sun was beginning to set when we started our ascent. Bathed in the evening glow, the craggy, limestone rocks were a soothing sight to city-weary eyes. The AC was turned off, the windows were rolled down. Heads swiveled back and forth not wanting to miss anything. It was hard to imagine that this 'flat-as-an-airstrip' road was hewn right through a mountain. Even my car purred in contentment.
According to some estimates, there are 60 curves en route to the top, and each time we rounded a bend, the view turned even more spectacular. As dusk set in, the lamps on either side of the road lit up, turning limestone into gold. The peak now resembled a dazzling tiara. Undoubtedly, a good deal of planning had gone into this route. There were emergency parking areas after every 150-200 metres, and observation points with ample car parking at two or three places.
A cool breeze was blowing when we finally reached the plateau at the top. There were almost a hundred cars parked all around the periphery, with people spilling out of them � families with picnic baskets, kids, even a few pets. There were more hordes milling around the vapidly titled 'Top of Hafeet Mountain Cafetaria'. There was even graffiti scribbled all along the surface of the peak.
A bit of the magical spell cast by the drive up the mountain was broken. But we found a tiny quiet spot to take it all in, and to gaze at Al Ain below. The city was ablaze with lights. The snaking route below, bathed in an incandescent light seemed almost surreal from our vantage point. We took a few pictures, walked around the periphery of the plateau and then headed back.
Perhaps M was right. The journey is the destination�
Last weekend, standing on top of Jebel Hafeet, the highest point in the UAE, I felt a faint stirring of that old magic. True, the altitude bore no comparisons. At 4,000 feet, Jebel Hafeet was more molehill than mountain. Still, the thrill of feeling a step away from the sky, of being surrounded by jagged outlines of mountains, of looking down at the city with an omniscient gaze - all of it more than made up for the lack of altitude for someone afflicted by acute mountain deprivation.
"The journey is the destination," announced my philosophical friend, M, who was also the guide on this trip. M has cris-crossed the length and breadth of the UAE in his tiny but trusty Mini Cooper, and had been coaxing me to do the drive for a while. My 3-month old car was raring to get out of the traffic-clogged city limits and tear away on the highways. Things came together last weekend. When most of Dubai was napping away the afternoon heat, five of us and two cars set off for Jebel Hafeet, on the outskirts of Al Ain.
The route between Dubai and Al Ain might have been drawn using a ruler, so rarely does it meander. And that's what made it an absolute pleasure to drive on. Empty roads and a speed limit of 120 - it was everything a newbie driver hoped for. Sand dunes rose and fell like waves on either side of the 6-lane highway. The horizon was mercifully exempt from towering half-finished structures, which dotted so much of Dubai.
Two hours and a couple of rest stops later, we reached the first of the roundabouts which announced our entry into Al Ain. Some of the roundabouts seemed familiar from my previous trip to Al Ain six months ago. But the circuitous route soon turned into a maze and I lost sight of the car I was supposed to be trailing.
Perhaps it was a case of 'bringing the mountain to Mohammed' but even as I was searching for a way to retrace my steps, I saw a sign up ahead which read 'Jebel Hafeet". Quite serendipitously, I found myself at the base of, what has been adjudged, 'the world's greatest driving road'.
Photo courtesy: www.edmunds.com
The sun was beginning to set when we started our ascent. Bathed in the evening glow, the craggy, limestone rocks were a soothing sight to city-weary eyes. The AC was turned off, the windows were rolled down. Heads swiveled back and forth not wanting to miss anything. It was hard to imagine that this 'flat-as-an-airstrip' road was hewn right through a mountain. Even my car purred in contentment.
According to some estimates, there are 60 curves en route to the top, and each time we rounded a bend, the view turned even more spectacular. As dusk set in, the lamps on either side of the road lit up, turning limestone into gold. The peak now resembled a dazzling tiara. Undoubtedly, a good deal of planning had gone into this route. There were emergency parking areas after every 150-200 metres, and observation points with ample car parking at two or three places.
A cool breeze was blowing when we finally reached the plateau at the top. There were almost a hundred cars parked all around the periphery, with people spilling out of them � families with picnic baskets, kids, even a few pets. There were more hordes milling around the vapidly titled 'Top of Hafeet Mountain Cafetaria'. There was even graffiti scribbled all along the surface of the peak.
A bit of the magical spell cast by the drive up the mountain was broken. But we found a tiny quiet spot to take it all in, and to gaze at Al Ain below. The city was ablaze with lights. The snaking route below, bathed in an incandescent light seemed almost surreal from our vantage point. We took a few pictures, walked around the periphery of the plateau and then headed back.
Perhaps M was right. The journey is the destination�
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Six
The early years are a bit fuzzy, but the one memory that stands out clearly is of the day I turned six. I even remember the frock I wore to school. It wasn’t pink or yellow or anything else cutesy. It was beige with a criss-cross pattern in front, and it ended just a little above my scarred knees. It also had two roses embroidered on the lapel, and I couldn’t stop running my fingers over its knotted texture. I remember the day so well because I was the only one in beige in a sea of blue uniforms. I was also the only one with a plastic bag bursting with toffees. “Two for each girl” – mum had counted.
I waited impatiently for the class just before the recess. That’s when the teacher, Miss Pushpa, closed the book, looked straight at me and called me to the front of the class. I acted coy, just like the other girls who’d gone through this routine on their birthdays, but in effect, I simply lapped up all the attention, even took my time getting to the front of the class. That’s a Leo for you. But then, you would know that.
I grinned from ear to ear, not knowing where to look, while the class went through the birthday chorus. When the applause had subsided, I sashayed through the rows handing out two toffees to the girls, and holding out the bag to the teacher, so she could take as many as she wanted. Which was usually one. And then, as girls before me had done, I pulled out a fistful and pushed it into her hand while she protested initially, and then, accepted with a sigh. The dozen or so toffees left were reduced to wrappers by the time the school bus reached our lane.
I cannot remember any other birthday in school, except for this one. Maybe it was because it was my first year in school, just like it is yours. I’ve been trying to imagine what your day will be like. Will your classmates make you feel special? Will you be carrying a bag full of sweets? Will you be overrun with gifts this year, like every year?
Speaking of which, I bought your gift before you expressed your desire for ‘something with a remote control’. I was wondering if you meant a TV, when you clarified that it was a car. Were you serious? A car? You never fail to surprise me.
This would be the second year that I’m not around to wish you on your birthday. But you can be sure, I will be celebrating with you every moment. Happy Birthday dearest Alison.
Technorati Profile
I waited impatiently for the class just before the recess. That’s when the teacher, Miss Pushpa, closed the book, looked straight at me and called me to the front of the class. I acted coy, just like the other girls who’d gone through this routine on their birthdays, but in effect, I simply lapped up all the attention, even took my time getting to the front of the class. That’s a Leo for you. But then, you would know that.
I grinned from ear to ear, not knowing where to look, while the class went through the birthday chorus. When the applause had subsided, I sashayed through the rows handing out two toffees to the girls, and holding out the bag to the teacher, so she could take as many as she wanted. Which was usually one. And then, as girls before me had done, I pulled out a fistful and pushed it into her hand while she protested initially, and then, accepted with a sigh. The dozen or so toffees left were reduced to wrappers by the time the school bus reached our lane.
I cannot remember any other birthday in school, except for this one. Maybe it was because it was my first year in school, just like it is yours. I’ve been trying to imagine what your day will be like. Will your classmates make you feel special? Will you be carrying a bag full of sweets? Will you be overrun with gifts this year, like every year?
Speaking of which, I bought your gift before you expressed your desire for ‘something with a remote control’. I was wondering if you meant a TV, when you clarified that it was a car. Were you serious? A car? You never fail to surprise me.
This would be the second year that I’m not around to wish you on your birthday. But you can be sure, I will be celebrating with you every moment. Happy Birthday dearest Alison.
Technorati Profile
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Abby Lee, I'm not
To all of you who've been directed here by your search for the Abby Lee blog, um... welcome and thanks for the gratifying increase in traffic.
I'll admit I won an Abby a couple of years ago, and that my blog pals call me Lee, and that the tag line of my blog, 'the girl next door....' rings somewhat with '... seductress next door', but my life isn't half as exciting as the real Abby Lee. Well, I'm only guessing it's exciting and racy since it has been deemed "...inconsistent with the religious, cultural, political and moral values of the United Arab Emirates", and has subsequently been blocked.
Guess I'll just have to buy the book.
I'll admit I won an Abby a couple of years ago, and that my blog pals call me Lee, and that the tag line of my blog, 'the girl next door....' rings somewhat with '... seductress next door', but my life isn't half as exciting as the real Abby Lee. Well, I'm only guessing it's exciting and racy since it has been deemed "...inconsistent with the religious, cultural, political and moral values of the United Arab Emirates", and has subsequently been blocked.
Guess I'll just have to buy the book.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Love Hurts
Tucked in between Britney Spears: The Ultimate Collection and The Pussycat Dolls at the Virgin Megastore in the Mall of the Emirates was the intriguingly-titled anthology: Break Up Songs.
Break Up Songs?! What marketing insight could have prompted a compilation of this nature, I wondered. Would you snap up the CD as a reminder of a relationship gone south? Would it make you feel better to hear ballads like 'I can't make you love me' or 'Just when I needed you most'? (In your distraught state, would you even notice the contradictions in 'Leave right now' and 'If you leave me now'?)
On another note, was it meant to be Gen-Y's equivalent of a 'Dear John' letter? ("Aw, I couldn't, you know, send him an sms that we're quits. That's so, cruel. So I gifted him the CD on Valentine's Day.")
One couldn't also overlook the possibility of it working as a subtle hint to a love-blind friend that the person he/she is dating is a loser.
My respect for the marketing brains behind Break Up Songs went up a few notches when I spotted the price tag. Where the average price of a CD ranged between 45 - 70 Dhs (roughly Rs. 540 - 840), Break Up Songs was priced at a heart-stopping 100 Dhs (approx. Rs. 1200). Clearly, according to the men in suits, there's no fool like a lovelorn fool.
I can't wait for them to come out with an anthology called, Songs to Inspire Regular Blogging...
Break Up Songs?! What marketing insight could have prompted a compilation of this nature, I wondered. Would you snap up the CD as a reminder of a relationship gone south? Would it make you feel better to hear ballads like 'I can't make you love me' or 'Just when I needed you most'? (In your distraught state, would you even notice the contradictions in 'Leave right now' and 'If you leave me now'?)
On another note, was it meant to be Gen-Y's equivalent of a 'Dear John' letter? ("Aw, I couldn't, you know, send him an sms that we're quits. That's so, cruel. So I gifted him the CD on Valentine's Day.")
One couldn't also overlook the possibility of it working as a subtle hint to a love-blind friend that the person he/she is dating is a loser.
My respect for the marketing brains behind Break Up Songs went up a few notches when I spotted the price tag. Where the average price of a CD ranged between 45 - 70 Dhs (roughly Rs. 540 - 840), Break Up Songs was priced at a heart-stopping 100 Dhs (approx. Rs. 1200). Clearly, according to the men in suits, there's no fool like a lovelorn fool.
I can't wait for them to come out with an anthology called, Songs to Inspire Regular Blogging...
Friday, July 14, 2006
It's possible...
… to read every single article in every single newspaper, travel from blog to blog assimilating first person accounts, updates and pictures, and feel sadly disconnected from it all.
It’s possible…
… to feel a wave of admiration for the unyielding denizens of my city and anger at their ‘resilience’ born out of helplessness.
It’s possible…
… to be shamelessly grateful that none who perished were my own, and feel a strange ache for the friend’s friend who wasn’t so lucky.
It’s possible…
To be relieved that one is far from it all, and feel a faint sense of betrayal that one is far from it all.
It’s possible…
… to feel a wave of admiration for the unyielding denizens of my city and anger at their ‘resilience’ born out of helplessness.
It’s possible…
… to be shamelessly grateful that none who perished were my own, and feel a strange ache for the friend’s friend who wasn’t so lucky.
It’s possible…
To be relieved that one is far from it all, and feel a faint sense of betrayal that one is far from it all.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Smokescreen
The Annual Cannes Advertising Festival results are out. The creative department in the agency is agog. There’s a huddle around the computer downloading the winners’ list. It’s a great year for Indian advertising – 58 nominations, of which 12 have turned into gold, silver and bronze.
The brilliance is sizzling; humbling even. Some ideas leap off the screen and strike you between the eyes. Some creep up slowly and punch you in the gut. A whistle of appreciation. A dismissive snort. A reverential silence.
There’s this winning entry in the Outdoor/Poster category from Everest Advertising, Mumbai, that demands a closer look. There are two pictures. The first picture depicts an unusual vantage point – a view from the bottom of a freshly dug grave. A square patch of sunlight is visible; around the edge of the ‘grave’ stand mournful relatives and a priest ministering the final blessing.
The second picture shows the first picture stuck on a ceiling of a Smoking Zone. Two people standing under the poster with cigarettes dangling from their fingers look up at it with tremulous expressions.
The penny drops. It’s a poster for the Cancer Patients Aid Association. By putting it on a ceiling, it gives those smoking below the impression that they’re being readied for burial.
A bold new way to convey an age-old, almost clichéd message. The murmurs of approval from those huddled around the computer reaches a crescendo. Even the cynics among the lot hail it. The finger on the mouse pauses before moving on to the next entry. Two questions hover in most minds - How did they think of this? Why didn’t I think of this? This is the best Indian entry, one person declares. What a killer idea, another repeats for the fourth time, shaking his head in awe.
They troop out one by one and meet again in the passage outside the office. The sole lighter is passed around. Amid puffs of smoke, the killer idea is once again given the thumbs up.
P.S. I doubt if my description of the poster did enough justice. Here it is
The brilliance is sizzling; humbling even. Some ideas leap off the screen and strike you between the eyes. Some creep up slowly and punch you in the gut. A whistle of appreciation. A dismissive snort. A reverential silence.
There’s this winning entry in the Outdoor/Poster category from Everest Advertising, Mumbai, that demands a closer look. There are two pictures. The first picture depicts an unusual vantage point – a view from the bottom of a freshly dug grave. A square patch of sunlight is visible; around the edge of the ‘grave’ stand mournful relatives and a priest ministering the final blessing.
The second picture shows the first picture stuck on a ceiling of a Smoking Zone. Two people standing under the poster with cigarettes dangling from their fingers look up at it with tremulous expressions.
The penny drops. It’s a poster for the Cancer Patients Aid Association. By putting it on a ceiling, it gives those smoking below the impression that they’re being readied for burial.
A bold new way to convey an age-old, almost clichéd message. The murmurs of approval from those huddled around the computer reaches a crescendo. Even the cynics among the lot hail it. The finger on the mouse pauses before moving on to the next entry. Two questions hover in most minds - How did they think of this? Why didn’t I think of this? This is the best Indian entry, one person declares. What a killer idea, another repeats for the fourth time, shaking his head in awe.
They troop out one by one and meet again in the passage outside the office. The sole lighter is passed around. Amid puffs of smoke, the killer idea is once again given the thumbs up.
P.S. I doubt if my description of the poster did enough justice. Here it is
Sunday, June 11, 2006
More than one good reason
1. I have no time
2. Work's too hectic
3. I've lost the rhythm
4. I have nothing to write about
5. I have so much to write about I don't know where to begin
6. I can't write with interruptions
7. I'll write on the weekend
8. It's such a shame to be indoors on a weekend
9. I'm not inspired
10. It's too hot.
11. The A/c is freezing. I'll write when my fingers thaw.
12. After this call...
13. Tomorrow..
14. It's time for a blog break.
15. It's time for a blog makeover.
16. There are more important things in life than blogging.
17. I've run out of excuses and I still don't have anything to write about.
18. There's a Sale on across the street.
19. There are better writers...
20. It's all been written before...
21. I need my sleep.
22. Writing excuses is such fun...
2. Work's too hectic
3. I've lost the rhythm
4. I have nothing to write about
5. I have so much to write about I don't know where to begin
6. I can't write with interruptions
7. I'll write on the weekend
8. It's such a shame to be indoors on a weekend
9. I'm not inspired
10. It's too hot.
11. The A/c is freezing. I'll write when my fingers thaw.
12. After this call...
13. Tomorrow..
14. It's time for a blog break.
15. It's time for a blog makeover.
16. There are more important things in life than blogging.
17. I've run out of excuses and I still don't have anything to write about.
18. There's a Sale on across the street.
19. There are better writers...
20. It's all been written before...
21. I need my sleep.
22. Writing excuses is such fun...
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
A glimpse of the desert
Doing a desert safari in the UAE is a bit like getting your picture clicked at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. It’s the touristy thing to do. And like most touristy things it looks good in pictures and ranks high on the ‘been-there-done-that’ scale. But it also feels a little dissatisfying, especially if packaged tours are not your idea of the right way to experience a place.
Having said that, I quite enjoyed the all-too-brief tryst with the dunes. Dubai does a great job of camouflaging the fact that it’s actually a desert. And in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve only heard travellers’ tales of the stark beauty of the desert. It was time to make an introduction – a formal one, albeit.
Desert safari operators in Dubai are a dirham a dozen. So considering it was the month end, we chose economy over effusive claims, and signed up with Fairyland Tours for 165 dirhams per person. Mustafa, our driver, arrived sharp at 4 p.m. to pick us up, and we set off to meet the rest of the group.
One of the redeeming features of Dubai is that you can get out of the city and cruise on the open roads in less than 20 minutes. The Dubai–Hatta Road was almost deserted on a Friday afternoon and we hurriedly rolled up the windows as the speedometer touched 140. The distances between the houses on either side of the road increased until only sandy hillocks and sparse trees were visible. Sand particles flew onto the road and receded like waves as vehicles sped by. The hour passed by unnoticed.
We reached an incongruous café and souvenir shop on the side of the road. People spilled out of half a dozen SUVs parked there. This was the last halt before we entered the dunes. While some used the opportunity to buy colas, chewing gum and other essentials, the drivers of the SUVs began preparing for the Dune Bashing (as the ride on the sand dunes is popularly called) by deflating the tyres. Apparently, flattened tyres ensure the vehicle doesn’t get stuck in gritty terrain.
Suitably deflated, our vehicles climbed into the dunes, which at first glance looked rather tame. There were mild undulations in the terrain, which stretched out for as far as the eye could see, and for someone who’s been awed by the topography of the Himalayas, this was not something to write home about.
I was unmoved when Mustafa began gearing up. First he pulled out a pair of wraparound shades. Then he fished out a zutra – a traditional Arabic headgear – and performed some complicated maneuvers before patting it down on his head. Next he asked all six of us in the vehicle to wear the seatbelt. Dune Bashing, indeed, I thought, rolling my eyes and blowing on my nails. This was going to be a ride on S.V. Road in Mumbai post-monsoons.
Dune Bashing requires special driving skills. Drivers usually have to undergo basic training and need a certification for desert driving. Mustafa mostly drove with one hand gripping the handle above the door and the other hand twisting, turning and pummeling the steering wheel. There were nervous giggles and muffled screams in the back when we went into a 45 degree slant or when we careened down the dune. Interestingly, the SUVs which customarily dominated the roads with their haughty presence, now seemed like little beetles scuttling in the sand.
We rode dune after dune in this similar jerky manner, and while my heart didn’t do any somersaults, I was dismayed to note that my stomach did. I had to ask Mustafa to stop the vehicle twice, and he willingly obliged. ‘Mostly happens with Asians’, he muttered, handing me tissues, and adding to my discomfiture.
The sun was a molten orb on the horizon when we made our next halt on the peak of a dune. Surfboards were brought out and those interested could surf down the dune. My friends and I tried it before we decided it sounded more exciting than it actually was. The ride was over in less than 10 seconds and climbing back up the dune with a heavy surfboard turned out to be an unanticipated aerobic activity.
Back in our vehicle, we headed to the campsite for an experience of Arabian culture. This included smoking (or for the inept, choking) on the sheesha, camel rides, henna tattoos and even dressing up in the hijab (for women) and the kandoora (for men). UAE law prohibits non-Emiratis from donning the national costume. However, an exception is made during safaris as long as one doesn’t step out of the campsite.
The perimeter of the camp was lined with tents where people could stretch out and allow their dune-bashed innards to recover before heading for the bar or for any of the other attractions. We took our time before heading to each of the tents where we got the henna tattoo, smoked an apple-flavoured sheesha and rode a camel called ‘Jaani’. The most novel part was posing for photographs wearing the hijab. There’s a certain mystique attached to the hijab, which cloaks everything but the eyes. For the few minutes that I paraded in it, there was a sense of having a secret vantage point to the world, of being more in control than those whose faces reflected every emotion, of being able to retreat easily into an inner space. But like I said, for me it was a novelty. A person required to wear it might opine differently. Or might not.
The star attraction of the evening was the belly dancer, who took to the podium in the centre of the camp. We watched for a while, but quickly tuned off when she began inviting members of the audience to dance with her, and who proceeded to imitate her moves to dreadful effect.
Soon, we were hustled into the food tent for an Arabic barbecue along the ubiquitous Indian food. It was 9 p.m., just 5 hours since we’d left home, although it felt like ages. Mercifully, we didn’t have to ride over the dunes to get back to the highway or I might just have done my Asian roots proud again. We reached the Hatta road in less than ten minutes and were home by 10 p.m.
A fun trip, no doubt, but I have a feeling that the real desert escapade is yet to come…
Having said that, I quite enjoyed the all-too-brief tryst with the dunes. Dubai does a great job of camouflaging the fact that it’s actually a desert. And in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve only heard travellers’ tales of the stark beauty of the desert. It was time to make an introduction – a formal one, albeit.
Desert safari operators in Dubai are a dirham a dozen. So considering it was the month end, we chose economy over effusive claims, and signed up with Fairyland Tours for 165 dirhams per person. Mustafa, our driver, arrived sharp at 4 p.m. to pick us up, and we set off to meet the rest of the group.
One of the redeeming features of Dubai is that you can get out of the city and cruise on the open roads in less than 20 minutes. The Dubai–Hatta Road was almost deserted on a Friday afternoon and we hurriedly rolled up the windows as the speedometer touched 140. The distances between the houses on either side of the road increased until only sandy hillocks and sparse trees were visible. Sand particles flew onto the road and receded like waves as vehicles sped by. The hour passed by unnoticed.
We reached an incongruous café and souvenir shop on the side of the road. People spilled out of half a dozen SUVs parked there. This was the last halt before we entered the dunes. While some used the opportunity to buy colas, chewing gum and other essentials, the drivers of the SUVs began preparing for the Dune Bashing (as the ride on the sand dunes is popularly called) by deflating the tyres. Apparently, flattened tyres ensure the vehicle doesn’t get stuck in gritty terrain.
Suitably deflated, our vehicles climbed into the dunes, which at first glance looked rather tame. There were mild undulations in the terrain, which stretched out for as far as the eye could see, and for someone who’s been awed by the topography of the Himalayas, this was not something to write home about.
I was unmoved when Mustafa began gearing up. First he pulled out a pair of wraparound shades. Then he fished out a zutra – a traditional Arabic headgear – and performed some complicated maneuvers before patting it down on his head. Next he asked all six of us in the vehicle to wear the seatbelt. Dune Bashing, indeed, I thought, rolling my eyes and blowing on my nails. This was going to be a ride on S.V. Road in Mumbai post-monsoons.
Dune Bashing requires special driving skills. Drivers usually have to undergo basic training and need a certification for desert driving. Mustafa mostly drove with one hand gripping the handle above the door and the other hand twisting, turning and pummeling the steering wheel. There were nervous giggles and muffled screams in the back when we went into a 45 degree slant or when we careened down the dune. Interestingly, the SUVs which customarily dominated the roads with their haughty presence, now seemed like little beetles scuttling in the sand.
We rode dune after dune in this similar jerky manner, and while my heart didn’t do any somersaults, I was dismayed to note that my stomach did. I had to ask Mustafa to stop the vehicle twice, and he willingly obliged. ‘Mostly happens with Asians’, he muttered, handing me tissues, and adding to my discomfiture.
The sun was a molten orb on the horizon when we made our next halt on the peak of a dune. Surfboards were brought out and those interested could surf down the dune. My friends and I tried it before we decided it sounded more exciting than it actually was. The ride was over in less than 10 seconds and climbing back up the dune with a heavy surfboard turned out to be an unanticipated aerobic activity.
Back in our vehicle, we headed to the campsite for an experience of Arabian culture. This included smoking (or for the inept, choking) on the sheesha, camel rides, henna tattoos and even dressing up in the hijab (for women) and the kandoora (for men). UAE law prohibits non-Emiratis from donning the national costume. However, an exception is made during safaris as long as one doesn’t step out of the campsite.
The perimeter of the camp was lined with tents where people could stretch out and allow their dune-bashed innards to recover before heading for the bar or for any of the other attractions. We took our time before heading to each of the tents where we got the henna tattoo, smoked an apple-flavoured sheesha and rode a camel called ‘Jaani’. The most novel part was posing for photographs wearing the hijab. There’s a certain mystique attached to the hijab, which cloaks everything but the eyes. For the few minutes that I paraded in it, there was a sense of having a secret vantage point to the world, of being more in control than those whose faces reflected every emotion, of being able to retreat easily into an inner space. But like I said, for me it was a novelty. A person required to wear it might opine differently. Or might not.
The star attraction of the evening was the belly dancer, who took to the podium in the centre of the camp. We watched for a while, but quickly tuned off when she began inviting members of the audience to dance with her, and who proceeded to imitate her moves to dreadful effect.
Soon, we were hustled into the food tent for an Arabic barbecue along the ubiquitous Indian food. It was 9 p.m., just 5 hours since we’d left home, although it felt like ages. Mercifully, we didn’t have to ride over the dunes to get back to the highway or I might just have done my Asian roots proud again. We reached the Hatta road in less than ten minutes and were home by 10 p.m.
A fun trip, no doubt, but I have a feeling that the real desert escapade is yet to come…
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Mozart, a desert safari and a heritage village
It’s been a busy month, March. But a nice kind of busy. Because it involved trips and new friends and achievements all coming together in a happy blur. And speaking of achievements, can one regard not having stepped into a mall in a whole month as a minor feat?
Mozart in the oasis
A couple of years ago, my travel wishlist had the following entry:
* Travel to Vienna in 2006 for Mozart’s 250th birth anniversary
I never really did much more than pen down that entry and entertain a vague hope. But I never imagined the universe would conspire (as Paulo Coelho would say) to bring Mozart right next door to me.
The Mozart Festival in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi, was magnificent for more than several reasons. To begin with, the setting was incredibly scenic: Al Ain is popularly known as the Garden City. But what was more enthralling was that the concert was staged at the Al Jahili Fort, which dates back to the 1890s. Listening to the Vienna Chamber Orchestra play the finest compositions of the prodigious composer who died when he was barely 35, was an experience that can best be described as magical. Speaking in a droll Japanese-Italian accent, Joji Hattori, the Japanese conductor attempted to add some humour as he introduced each of the pieces. The 1500-strong crowd tittered on cue. But the highlight of the evening was the Lebanese singer, who along with a few local musicians and the Vienna Chamber Orchestra did a soulful tribute to Mozart.
The Coffee pot roundabout at Al Ain
Al Jahili Fort
The stage is set for Mozart
The Vienna Chamber Orchestra
(Next: the desert safari)
Mozart in the oasis
A couple of years ago, my travel wishlist had the following entry:
* Travel to Vienna in 2006 for Mozart’s 250th birth anniversary
I never really did much more than pen down that entry and entertain a vague hope. But I never imagined the universe would conspire (as Paulo Coelho would say) to bring Mozart right next door to me.
The Mozart Festival in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi, was magnificent for more than several reasons. To begin with, the setting was incredibly scenic: Al Ain is popularly known as the Garden City. But what was more enthralling was that the concert was staged at the Al Jahili Fort, which dates back to the 1890s. Listening to the Vienna Chamber Orchestra play the finest compositions of the prodigious composer who died when he was barely 35, was an experience that can best be described as magical. Speaking in a droll Japanese-Italian accent, Joji Hattori, the Japanese conductor attempted to add some humour as he introduced each of the pieces. The 1500-strong crowd tittered on cue. But the highlight of the evening was the Lebanese singer, who along with a few local musicians and the Vienna Chamber Orchestra did a soulful tribute to Mozart.
The Coffee pot roundabout at Al Ain
Al Jahili Fort
The stage is set for Mozart
The Vienna Chamber Orchestra(Next: the desert safari)
Monday, March 20, 2006
Ha Ha Hee Hee
There's nothing I enjoy more than reading the newspapers out here. Apart from the daily exercise involved in merely lifting a single day's copy of the Khaleej Times or Gulf News , there are other salutary benefits. Most newspapers dedicate a page or less to the funnies; here, there's entertainment aplenty on every page you look. Like for instance, this little gem tucked away in the 7 Days (a hugely popular, free tabloid).
Interview 'attacker' cleared
A man has been found not guilty of molesting a woman who came for a job interview. The man was accused of molesting a woman, who applied for a job working at the Global Village. The woman claimed she asked him to stop, and was then offered money for sex, which she refused. The suspect denied the charges, and his boss testified that he was not likely to have molested anyone, because he had memorised the Koran.
Interview 'attacker' cleared
A man has been found not guilty of molesting a woman who came for a job interview. The man was accused of molesting a woman, who applied for a job working at the Global Village. The woman claimed she asked him to stop, and was then offered money for sex, which she refused. The suspect denied the charges, and his boss testified that he was not likely to have molested anyone, because he had memorised the Koran.
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