Make your Money and Run, Boy

Queen Alia International Airport, Jordan

It is a fresh and clear morning and the traffic pretty much non existent as we ran from the city to Queen Alia. Immigration and passports and other officials were sleepy and inattentive, the immigration guy slumped down in his chair below the counter catching some sleep. The place is lousy with American men, and their accents echo through the building. All polite in their own way but making the mistake of speaking louder when someone fails to comprehend their drawl. Adventurers into Iraq I guess. Three out of four wear military style boots and carry military style backpacks. They seem to fall into two groups. Young men in late twenties early thirties age. Travelling in pairs or trios. Jeans, T-shirt and baseball cap. All seem to still carry their military style haircuts. It’s hard to leave the military nursery after all, even (especially) after your discharge is formalised. Most are fit and burly, straining T-shirts to breaking point. One short case looks like he could bench press a cement truck. The local boys in the café humour them although the Jordanian police sergeant refused to reply to a drawled “howya doin’ boy?” I suspect he would take no consolation from hearing the same greeting thrown at a couple of the American's buddies who later came up the escalator from immigration. The second group appear to be in their fifties or so. The uniform is similar although the hair longer and the goatee more frequent. They travel on their own. Same military backpacks. And definitely not as fit looking. I fancy they are seeking the same adventure though. Headed for Iraq and taking the opportunity to do something outlandish, historical or cash rewarding. The latter is a major attraction. Two of them standing behind me at immigration had one of those typically loud American conversations, for the whole immigration hall to hear, about how it was only the cash that drew them to Iraq. Quipped one, to the other , “make your money and run boy, make your money and run.”

It is All About Hospitality...

Thought I would share a touching moment. On my first night here a young man dressed snappily in the hotel issue waist coat appeared at my door to turn down my bed. (Can someone tell what that is all about - after being on the road for more than 20 years I still don't get that. A hangover from older days and colder parts when hot brick was put in your bed perhaps?) Anyway, in he came and fussed around a bit and then we found ourselves in conversation. And so its been every evening since. Last night he discovered this was my last night here in his hotel and he was disappointed that we would no longer have our broken English conversations, a laugh and a backslap. (I said slap!). Plus the few high fives thrown in. Heavens knows what they were about but they meant something to him and communication is, after all, more than words. Tonight he was waiting for me as I came in from meetings. He expressed his sadness that this was my last night here, sadness at my next destination (!) and as a token of his friendship presented me with this rather battered looking gerbera (the other flowers were standard issue to every room). He had stiffened it with wire and from what I had gathered he had made a special effort to get his hands on it. Which means he probably had to sneak it out of the monstrous displays down in the lobby. Flowers from blokes is not normally something that rings true in my own culture but this meant something special to this young chap and after carefully getting the stem trimmed, and placed in water, another high five and a "sad to be goodbye" he was gone. Who couldn't be touched by that? One of those moments that makes travelling in other cultures extra special. And which was a sign of the hospitality that is a genetic component of the Arab makeup.

Panorama from Mt Nebo

Well part of it anyway. This composite view looks down the mountain and across the Jordan Valley. Views to the right complete the picture in terms of understanding the terrain but given the camera flattens everything and depth is lost I have left it out. This gives some idea at least, and the general direction of things. Despite the dust and sand blowing up out of the desert we could just make out the Dead Sea, which turned out to be about a 15 minute drive away. The general direction of other points of interest are shown. Bethlehem and Jerusalem could not be seen but are only 50km away. The hills on which they sit were faintly visible but I had to wait until we reached the bottom of this escarpment before they became really clear. And an escarpment it truly is. Standing here gives you a good sense of why Joshua attacked from this direction.

Surprisingly, despite the tough terrain, the whacking heat and the strong winds the hills are dotted with the tents of the Bedouin who live out here on..., well, I am not too sure. Did not seem very much around although each storm torn gully (the evidence of violent flooding is everywhere) had a base of vegetation tucked away from the elements.

Mt Nebo - Moses' Lookout

As with wandering Jerusalem and other parts of this world there is no expectation that the sites you visit are the real thing. After all there are numerous ideas about where Jesus was born, crucified and even buried. But knowing you are wandering the same place and taking in similar views is enough to have an impact, far beyond what I expected when I fist visited this part of the world ten years ago.

Mt Nebo is a short drive out of Amman and is the place where Moses supposedly took a look at the Promised Land, though denied entry (he would feel at home in this part of the world still!!). Even if it is not the precise spot you certainly get a good idea of what he might have seen. I was struck by the short distances involved. From here you could just make out the Jordan River, Jericho and the blue hills lifting up to Jerusalem through the summer dust and haze. On a clear day Jerusalem is visible. It all must have seemed so much in his grasp as he looked across the plains in front of him.

And of course Joshua would have stood up here somewhere too, planning his strategy from these heights which dominate the plains. You get a good appreciation for why he came this way as well - pushing up along the sides of the lake would have presented the plains people with an easy way of defending themselves. Indeed, Jehicho is strategically placed not only on the highways but at the head of the west side of the Dead Sea, to better cover the approaches from the south. It makes a difference being able to see this ground first hand.

On top of the mountain is an excavated church, the destination for early pilgrims. It is carefully preserved, and covered from the elements and worth the visit if only from an historical perspective. What am I saying? That is the main perspective here is it not? It's a serene place. Well, was for a few minutes when the generator was turned off for smoko. A couple of workers, dressed like the Sith to stay out of the sun, were drilling into the rock to set up some steps for visitors, and the stillness of the place and the chatter of sparrows in the pines were all lost once you got out onto the top of the hill. In the background is a piece of symbolic sculpture - serpent and staff.

Dead Sea

Not much more you can say in a title without trivialising the experience. And I am not even sure what to say about the place that has not been said before. We all know you float like an apple in a barrel in this water. In fact, trying to swim on your front demonstrates to the locals (all hiding in the shade since its 45 degrees out here) that there is an idiot in the water - the buoyancy flips you over and your legs won't stay down. So there you are thrashing around trying to look like you have it all under control. The two others in the water just sat on the sandy bottom and looked at me in silence, the old guy shaking his head every now and then. Soon the stuff was in my eyes and the fooling around stopped as acid ripped them out of my head. I weighed up letting it work its way out or running over the broken glass, which is the salt encrusted beach, to get my towel. I stayed in the water. Floating around is the key. Just give in to it and let it hold you up. I am not sure reading a book is really that feasible - I value my books too much. It feels like light machine oil. Indeed, if there is anything tactile about you then this place is heaven. But the surprise was that despite the slight oily texture the water is very clear. No vegetation to foul it up and discolour it I guess. The surface tension is so "tight" (is that the right word?) bubbles created in the aforementioned thrashing around sound like rice bubbles snapping and popping. Oh, and by the way those couple of small shaving nicks from yesterday now feel like major wounds. The blueness of the lake, fuses with the distant hills lifting towards Jerusalem which in turn fuse into the furnace sky. (Jericho is over my left shoulder by the way). Blue on blue. The air is heavy and oppressive, a sensation less of humidity and more of weight. Salt crystals form on the waters edge. White and bright in the shallow water, when crushed in your fingers they turn to salty sludge and dissolve. Stones have salt crystals growing around them in the shallows. Not unlike quartz. And the sand from the bottom when stirred up takes ten minutes to settle again. Thirty minutes was enough - I was going to turn into a pillar of salt if I was not careful. Rinsed off, got dressed then had a lunch of goat's head and rice. I think I have acquired the taste!

Presidential Security - ATough Gig

Back in 1982 I was caught up as a minor minion in the security surrounding the visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Canberra. Sorry, Canbra. It's a thankless task although on the day she and Phil were leaving town I had the good fortune to have her slow and and wave at me, Phil getting a nudge to look as well. I had the presence of mind to wave back - a salute was out of the question! But I think she was actually having a laugh at the one floppy ear of my retarded looking police dog and did not notice my poor protocol. That visit sprung to mind (yes, my mind connects in ways even I don't understand) as I walked out for my early morning wander and found the hotel locked down with soldiers everywhere and a Hummer at the front door rigged up with a pintel mounted machine gun. Trouble is the Hummer was hemmed in on each side by two buses that had pulled in to carry the entourage (as it turns out) of the President of the Maldives who is visiting this place as well (I hope he has the room on the other side of the screaming baby, something might get done). If it all turns to custard this guy had an arc of fire of about 5 degrees, could not cover the street or support any of the soldiers lined up all over the place. The best he would be able to do is dust pigeons off the hair salon directly in front of him. Blaming the bus drivers was going to sound pretty weak. I felt sorry for him for a moment then remembered it was he who chose Army instead of Air Force!
3 Sept 07

I am the Good Shepherd - of Amman

Running around today and finally finishing early by Arab business standards – about 8pm. Back to back meetings and dashing about town. Actually that gives the wrong impression – at about mid afternoon the city gridlocked and we crawled. Locals blamed the visit by the Italian Prime Minister for streets being closed, hastily assuring me the town was not normally like this. I made soothing sounds.

But at one point we had a clear run from the Embassy into town and as we crested a hill and barrelled down the other side a young boy and his sheep wandered into the traffic. Everyone slowed and moved around him. No horns or signs of irritation. The boy ignored the traffic and marched along with his flock of sheep following him. His nonchalance and clear assumption of his right of way was laugh out loud stuff. But also a nice reminder that despite all the focus on oil and industry in the Middle East this part of the world is still about agrarian things. Even the front page of the paper today carried a story of a wrangle over sheep taxes, just in case we needed reminding! And even though this city has remarkable Biblical history roots they are impossible to see now. So this little flock represented those roots for me in a symbolic way instead.

2 September 2007

CIA’s Jason Bourne Has Arab Friends

Watching a movie in another country is always an interesting experience, especially if the English original is dubbed in one language, subtitled in another and you are left with no English. Happens occasionally in Asia. Then there is the different etiquette expected – trying breaking any of the rules about where to sit in Singapore and they want to stop the movie so they can sort out the seating. Even when there are only 15 of you in the theatre. In Amman this evening the theatre had a decidedly family theatre feel about it. It was small as far as theatres go but we were up against local pop movies and all the kids were filling what I expect were larger halls. The predominantly male audience crowded into a space with seating for maybe 200. The screen was distinctly warped, like one of those carnival mirrors that adds weight to your waist or stretches your head into a cone. If the size of the place was not enough to give a sense of being in a family theatre the constant chat among groups, which back home would have irritated me, seemed appropriate. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Heck, even I ended up firm friends with a couple of Jordanians who are students in Texas and are currently home visiting family. People wandered in and out, phones were answered, messages checked, and when Jason wasn’t hurtling along in some frantic dash those conversations burbled along. And when Jason got on top of things at Waterloo station there was polite applause. But a clap and cheer each time he bested his CIA rogue minders. And a laugh of relief and theatre wide applause when the final scene with Nicki reveals all is not lost. Whatever your TLA (three letter acronym) everyone wants the good guy to win in the end. Even if he is CIA.

Its an Arab World

Outside the window the normal hotel pool parade is going on. Young fit men strut their stuff. So do fat men who are just beyond caring and who waddle around defying anyone their right to a place in the sun. They all spreadeagle in the sun and defy it to do its worst. Some hairy chested types are basted walnut stain brown. And still they lie out there for hours, aiming for an even darker hue. Young women start the parade earlier than the men however. They are out there on their own shortly after breakfast and are lathering up the oil so when the sun lifts to mid morning they are glistening like a newly polished hotrod (except you wouldn't leave one of those out in the blistering sun). It is now five hours since the first one arrived and she is still there on her sun chair. She has shifted around from side to side, end to end but has been roasting without a break - I’ve organised meetings, had lunch, walked to the shops, sorted visas and done a host of things while she has been working on her skin cancer. But that is not the thing that stands out – there are “sun idiots” the world over. What is striking is that a short hop across the border is a whole kingdom that locks up their women. They can’t have jobs, drive, or be themselves outside of the home. On this side of the border they wear bikinis and worship the sun. If there is a truism about the Middle East it is that there is no such thing as a typical Arab world. It’s about as diverse as anything you can imagine which shares the same language, prophet, cultural roots and geography.

Short Finals into Amman, Jordan

We fly up along the Saudi/Iraq border. The haze over the Arabian peninsular means there is little to see. As we swing into Jordan the air clears and the landscape sharpens up. There is a lot that is familiar to Australian eyes. Sweeping dry riverbeds carve up the landscape. But there is a constant dun to the sand and rock, the Australian brass, oranges and reds missing. As we drop lower dry water course show up scanty vegetation following their underground resources while the number of farmlets increases. Goats and sheep, standing around truck handing out hay. How very familiar. Contour ploughing and lines of trees, possibly olives planted along the contours as well. Dust. Haze. Weedy paddocks and rocks. Perimeter rushes up on us, guard towers every so many hundred metres and here we are. Welcome to Jordan. I messed up the transfers into the city to jumped a taxi whose driver ripped me my change but who pretty much stuck to his lane, got out of the way of speeding BMWs and got me into the city in one piece OK. You can’t ask for much more than that.

Dubai International Airport

This is something of a reunion and there is the air of the familiar as I transit through here. We landed at 5.30 am but time of arrival or departure seems to make little difference here since it is always crowded with transients. This is definitely a utilitarian hub, focused squarely on shifting people through. But in so doing we are all forced to walk though a quite remarkable duty free shopping centre. In actual fact shopping is probably the main reason for the existence of this hall. If you are ever looking for the definition of a melting pot, use this place as your template. Africans, many in their national dress, come in from the south. Those tall and elegant ones from the Horn of Africa seem to float through the shambles, regal in their bearing and not being reduced by the confusion. Groups of Russian men heading who knows where but all smoking their heads off (outside the smoking refuges) and slapping each other’s back in uproarious good humour. Arabs in all the variety of their dress, some completely covered, while others in Western hip hop fashion. A group of ten year old girls from Malaysia all asleep in a circle on the floor, their yellow T-shirts advertising their school. A very high number of workers from South Asia who are the most stoic of the lot, in small groups squatting with arms resting on their knees, watching through the forest of legs that drill past them. A squatting clutch of Korean men compare their visa applications. They look like construction or shipyard workers as well. And here too are the numerous Filipinos in transit to more prosperous times for their families, but via the hard graft of being exploited for their labour in this part of the world. Holidaying Brits and other Europeans make up a large part of the population, pasty skinned or fried and the duty free shops do a roaring trade with them. But it is the poorly dressed single men who clutch their papers, even (especially) as they sleep across the carpet and clutter up the walkways. Some of them snowy haired and aged. Many in simple attire, some in nothing more than rags. With sandals on their feet, rarely shoes. Some look lost, most have a resigned air about them. Where are they going? Where are their families? Are they leaving loved ones or heading home? How long are they away? (A porter in a hotel in Saudi once told me he gets home to see his wife and children in Sri Lanka once every six years!) What on earth do they make of the obscene wealth on display on the duty free floor below? What are their dreams? Do they have any dreams? Can you dream for something better when you have nothing? Or is that all you do? And that, after all, is what Dubai is about – dreams. Dreams of fabulous wealth for those who have nothing, and dreams of fabulous entertainment for those who have. And dreams of freehold real estate and more sunny days than rainy days per year for those who crave those things but who fall somewhere in the middle. This airport of course is only a mirror of what is being lived outside in the dusty 38 degree heat.

On the Road Again: Middle East Diary

Some unexpected travel came out of the trip to London last month so here I am on the road again. Heading this time into the Middle East, a part of the world that has grown on me.

Emirates EK419

Departures, especially those on long trips are now to be dreaded, regardless of how glossy the brochure extolling the destination, or the claims an airline makes via is model stewards about how much you are going to enjoy the trip. The maxim that the journey is more important than the destination might be good for your chicken soup guide for life but has zero relevance to long haul flights. Emirates seem to have slipped in a couple of extra rows since I flew with them last and I am unable to stretch out, testing my claims that I can sleep anywhere. We bore out of Sydney and head for Dubai via Bangkok where I now sit after a brief walk around Thailand’s new airport. When I came through here for a couple of days last October we missed this new building by one day. Nearly a year on and it already shows wear and tear. Sadly it is another modern airport with nothing startling about the shiny chrome and glass and new concrete. The holding pens for all the seething, crying, bored, irritable stock are no different to any other holding pens in any other airport trying to attract then quickly churn as many passengers as possible. Here we all sit at 2 o’clock in the morning, badly wanting to nod off and not really able to in the plastic seats they have for us. This flight seems to have a lot of kids on it so our gritty eyed fatigue is accompanied by a symphony of sniffles, grumps and outright dissenting wails. I feel sorry for these parents who are stoic in the face of the assault. If I find the place drear, they must hate what it doesn’t offer for small kids trying to work out what is going on. But the diminutive Thai staff are good humoured and see us though and reboarded all with a semblance of good humour. For which we are all thankful.

That BioLuminescence

In a previous blog I referred to the bioluminescence which was lighting up the waves at Manly. By the time I got back there a couple of nights later with a camera the show had subsided and while the electric shocks were still flashing through the water they were not as frequent. And a camcorder is not the best device for grabbing those sorts of views. But the attached few seconds give you an idea about how spectacular it was - there are some initial glimmers across the tops of the breaking waves and then throughout the wave as it breaks. The dinoflagellate which cause this are marine plankton and in this case are apparently associated with the red algae we have floating off the coast at the moment.

Double Fechr Blog Promotion

I decided a while ago that this forum is really aimed at well, me. It's useful mix of journal and writing and other creativity though there are many more hours I could spend in here! But that decision meant I have stayed away from trying to place Google ads and all of that sort of stuff. I have not really focused on getting a lot of online attention although there is now a regular round of readers and visitors - repeat visitors are flattering, let's be honest. However many of those visitors first picked up on Pickled Eel when Bobby at Bestest Blog got me some pretty broad spectrum coverage through his site. After something of a hiatus he is back with a new promotion tool which is worth having a look at. Linked here is Fechr.com (pronounced Feature) which gives you 24 hours of intense exposure for no cost (at the moment) - a double fechr whichever way you look at it.

A Japanese Haircut

I was only looking for a straightforward haircut, much like this young bloke is getting from his Dad. (Didn’t we all hate haircuts from our Dad?! Dad to kid with hacked hair “Hey, what’s the difference between a good and a bad haircut?” Silent pause. “Two weeks! Ha, hah. Now put the clippers away for me will you?” Would have gladly thrown them down an offal pit). (I reckon this kid is glaring at his siblings who are laughing behind Dad - who also has a grin which was never a good sign). Anyway, best get off the couch. Had a meeting in Tokyo with some senior executives of Matsushita (who own Panasonic among other things). Decided I was looking a bit woolly and needed a tidy up. So I walked into the first hairdresser I could find next to the hotel. My Japanese was limited to Toyota, Hiroshima, Sony, Suzuki – you get the idea. Their English was limited to nervous giggles. I signed with scissoring fingers that I needed a haircut. The very cute receptionist nodded and bowed vigorously then showed me into a very sharp waiting room. Glass and leather, mirrors and chrome. She then gave me a bottle of water. That should have been my cue that I was going to be there a long time. From that point on I was treated like a cross between an invalid and a rock star. I was wheeled in my chair from station to station. Shampoo here, lather there, rinse over there, more goop there, massage somewhere else, pause and read Japanese fashion magazines for fifteen minutes in the middle of the shop (with no glasses – they had been taken off me, carefully folded in a cloth and locked away in their own little safety deposit box). Giggling ride somewhere else (dark this time, with strobes), another massage and rinse. After an hour and half someone tentatively approaches me with scissors. They clip away for moment or two before their role is complete and someone else steps in with golden scissors and clips up the back. A girl in a revealing bib and brace set of overalls swans in and clips the hair off the top before someone has a go at the sides. Then a wash and rinse again. More goop. Another massage. A vigorous toweling. A long and studied examination by three or four as my hair is brushed into shape (basic short back and sides!!) before being wheeled, after two hours, to the reception where I am looked at expectantly by a small crowd of workers. It took a few moments for me to realise I was finally free. That I was allowed out of the chair. I opened my wallet dreading what this was going to cost. Twenty dollars!! I could scarce believe it. I fled up the street to the hotel laughing at the experience but after seven bottles of water I was desperate for a bathroom. I was not game to ask where theirs was – it might have invited another couple of hours of, well, washing and rinsing!!
Tokyo, Japan 2002

A Drug Arm Proposition

Our team hit the streets again last night and we patrolled the northern beaches, checking out some new sites and visiting the well known haunts of kids (and older) who find themselves at a drunk or high loose end on Saturday night. It was very quiet, even though the weather was decidedly warmer and the wind had dropped. In fact the ocean was almost a dead calm. We soon found our way down to Manly where we found a police car camped at our usual park. We pulled in beside them but the police are a sure fire deterrent to kids who might want to talk to us about drug and alcohol issues. They left after a few minutes but “traffic” was still slow. Then we were treated to two highlights.

The first had nothing to do with what we were doing but was merely a factor of being where we were – as we watched the surf we noticed that with increasing frequency waves were being lit from inside by what looked like lightening strikes of green light, Some incredibly bright and spectacular shows. Bio luminescence at work. I have never seen any thing like it.

And I had never seen anything like the large woman who, with a complete skinful, in her late forties or so – hard to tell sometimes – turned up with her battered scallops clasped in one hand and in a drunken rasping voice asked for a cup of hot chocolate. As I was whisking that up for her she decided a hot drink was not enough and asked for a cuddle. My colleagues were appalled. I had to decline this advance, which was followed by a few more requests, on the basis that cuddles were only issued on week days, not weekends. As she processed that we quickly packed up and did a bolt up the road to where earlier we had seen a group of kids. Drunk teenagers, one of whom then tried to steal our light, were a far safer proposition than her insistent overtures. And we were able to share with them our wonder of the sparkling, glowing surf.

1788 Connection with Kensington

(Notes from a Kensington Coffee Shop - across from the St Mary Abbots Church)

Moss leaks down the stone in green shadows, crowning the heads of stone characters in a very hip luminescence which would earn high praise in the night club across the High Street. From outside, the stained windows are slate black and their colour is lost to us. The sun pokes through occasionally and with the help of the stirring maple trees dapples the stone and windows in blotches of moving light, drawing soft oranges and blues from the windows and lightening the stone, giving it life.

Kensington rushes past Francis Hepburn , buried here in February 1788, the year the First Fleet arrived in Australia. As I rub the dirt and leaves from the engraved letters of her name there is a surreal moment of compressed time and a strange connection made with this place, based on those dates. While Kensington bustled about its ordinary business and Francis was but a month from her grave Sydney cove watched in silence and wonder at the apparition of the fleet - soon proven to be real enough. What was happening in this parish while the fleet was settling into Sydney Cove? The connection seems all the more real for the current existence of this church building, linking time, place and visitor in a surreal way, with the help of Francis' passing. I wonder what she would make of my musing on her helping make a connection with this place.

Australian War Memorial Me109

And chasing G for George (see previous post) is this Me109. Still working on those Canberra highlights!

Lancaster Bomber G for George

Canberra, pronounced "Canbra" by locals and properly by everyone outside the country, is a large country town which we otherwise defer to as our capital city. It is home to an outstanding war memorial - the Australian War Memorial no less. It does an excellent job of being a memorial to our fallen and to visit is a moving experience. When I first went to live in Canbra in 1981 every spare day (I was a shiftworker in those days) was spent wandering the halls and absorbing the history. And burning off numerous rolls of 35mm film in bad light. In pride of place was G for George, an iconic aircraft which flew 88 missions from 1942 as part of 460 SQN RAAF. More than 200 crew flew in her and her survival made her famous - as did her return to Australia as part of a war bond drive. Now she is "airborne" in the War memorial in a new, spectacular, world class hall dedicated to some amazing aircraft and all set up in a very "live" environment. The hall alone is worth the visit. It is one excellent reason to visit Canberra. There are a few others but I need a few days to remember what they are. I'll get back to you on that.

View from a Doha Rooftop

The boys are setting up the wide screen. A dodgy connector is slowing us down. So I take my lime and cold water up onto the roof and step around the water containers and sat dishes and make my way to the edge. The sun has just gone down and a heavy haze of dust and fumes hangs on the horizon, speckled orange by the faded sun. It is just a little over 48 degrees and nothing moves. There is no sound, for we are deep in the burbs and there is no traffic that I can discern. The flip flop scuff of someones sandals alerts me to someone heading to the mosque. Its the only movement and sound. No birds. No dogs barking. Its too hot for any of that. As the night comes on and the sky softens the lads come upstairs and join me. Our glasses rain a small shower over our hands and onto the roof. We are stupefied by the heat and dominated by the silence. And captivated by the serenity of it all. Then the pizza arrives on a clattering push bike which dispels the magic and I am told the big screen is up and running after all. So we carefully make our way down the ladder and settle in to watch something so memorable I can't recall it the next day!!

April 2005

Hong Kong Waterfront

I am not sure what to make of Hong Kong. There is something about all that glass and steel which is very appealing. But the Kowloon markets, alleys, narrow streets, dodgy goods, poor lighting, gazillion product types, and general hawker atmosphere that tugs even more firmly at my sensibilities than the western elements of this town. Perhaps in the end it is an amalgam of all these things that make Hong Kong unique.

Late last night I wandered the fish markets, comprised mainly of hawkers trying to offload eels from their wicker baskets. Maybe at the end of the day it is only eels that are left. It still has a flavour of the old Hong Kong about it, and that illusion can be maintained as long as you don't let your gaze lift too far from the baskets and shrivelled old ladies trying to sell you something live and jumpy - else you find yourself looking into the windows of five star hotels. A few short blocks away I met and chatted with a young man who was standing at a deserted wharf, not far from a cruise ship, with a small roll of line and attempting to snare the smallest of harbour fish. He was not doing it for a meal but for the recreation. (I thought, unkindly, he needed a trip to far north Queensland to get some trevally on his line). But we enjoyed a conversation usually shared by fishermen - bait., lines, hooks, family who don't understand. A universal language. I left him with nothing in his bucket but a hopeful look was on his face.

This afternoon I wandered in blistering heat along the waterfront and mixed with the nouveau rich, of which there were thousands, all walking with the disbelieving air of having made it from the mainland to Hong Kong. And were wondering what all the fuss was about. In the heat of the day the waterfront was a baking oven with the occasional jarring icon out on display. This evening it came alive with crowds, ice cream, coke and a carnival atmosphere. But only the Chinese seem to be able to create a carnival atmosphere while they all mill around and look at each other.
September 2004

Hard and Buff Kitbag

This travel advice, intended to make your vacation (sorry, evection) all the smoother by removing the aggravation associated with creased clothes, and other issues to do with packing garments is a little gem that has been floating around in my PC for years. I have always wondered what the doohickey is and what dictionary provided such a translation. And I can only imagine that your adversary is the person you just spent 14 hours sitting next to in cattle class. Hit them with your hard and buff kitbag - but only if the airline has not lost it. Enjoy.(p.s. click on the image to yield a readable version)

Moslem Culture in Qatar

The community mosques, as distinct from the large buildings in the middle of the cities, are just that, focused on their communities. They are places of worship but are open centres of community life as well. OK, at least for the men. I remember talking with some men exiting a mosque in the markets of Dubai. They had been there for prayers but had stayed on to drink coffee and to chat, and to take some business lessons. Business lessons?! Someone in the congregation was touting his business acumen for free and attempting to help the less fortunate with whom he rubbed shoulders.

There are some wonderful mosques in Qatar but as with other places in the Middle East it seems that the smaller ones are the more interesting ones. The ones with most community interaction. That located in the middle of Doha had all sorts of activities happening in the evening, helped I suspect by being located just across the road from the markets. But by the time I walked past it on the last night of my visit it was quiet and the doors closed. Like most mosques they take on another air at night and many are lit to show off their lines and colour. With a full moon out, the mosque and its towers were nicely showcased. In the heat of the night I stopped for quite a while and watched the moon shift its way around the towers. To go back to the hotel room seemed sacrilegious and I was in no hurry to go back there.

April 2005

Qatar: Dig a Little and Unearth the Local

Qatar is another one of those booming places in the Middle East that are a strange mix of old, ancient, modern, Arab and American. All popping up out of the desert. I walked this evening from the hotel, parked on the waters edge, out through the dark to a shopping mall. It was like walking through a new housing estate, with new roads laid out and services installed, street lights installed, palms planted and gently clicking in the slight breeze, but with houses yet to be built. In the middle distance I could see a large, unlit, multistory block house that I was told was the shopping centre. I wandered across a vacant lot, sinking into talc like dust and sand, plopping along creating my own mini sandstorm. The sun had sunk into a saffron sky a few hours earlier but the stifling heat meant I was carefully pacing myself. Stepping inside the mall was like stepping into another world - from the velvet quiet of the night to the blurring speed of a hectic mall, with thousands shopping or making the most of the airconditioning.

But I did not come here to get lost in Western style malls. I had the good fortune today to be taken, during our lunch break, out to the fish markets. These are well and truly away from the regular tourist beat and they even took our local contact a while to unearth. That they were so far from the water was not a good sign. But here was local colour and smell, characters who eyed us warily and others who hammed it up for us. Naturally they were disappointed we were not buying. But in this heat, with no, or very little ice, you had to be quick to get in front of the locals who were snapping them up as quickly as they were cleaned and whisking them away. I hope they were taking them away to be chilled. Cleaned by an expert if not surly looking team of cleaners who gutted and scaled in a blur of movement that was a little disconcerting.

April 2005

Starbucks Religious Police

I am often confronted by people who are surprised I want to travel to Saudi, or other places in the Middle East. There is an assumption that it is not safe. Saudi is as safe as most other places and I was able to walk the streets late at night without any concern for my safety, other than that too often there are no sidewalks.

The religious police are another matter. I was warned to be careful around them but was not sure what that really meant. What the warning really meant was that they are an unpredictable lot with no set guide about what they are supposed to police. Any enthusiast can be a member of the religious police and you need nothing by way of training except the passion of a zealot. In any community that is a dangerous thing.

I was sitting outside a Starbucks enjoying a slice of cake and an iced coffee. It was 48degrees C (118 Fahrenheit) and the still dry air was being offset slightly by a fine mist blowing across the tables. I had tried sitting inside but the air conditioning was turned to the other extreme, to 15 degrees C. The heat was a better option. As I sat down with my drink I was vaguely aware of all the mosques in the area starting their calls to prayer. A couple of people got up and moved off. The store was supposed to shut operations for the time of prayer but did not and the crowd I was with continued to drink and socialise. Two very large Hummers had just turned up and disgorged small crowds of young men who milled around talking and joking and ordering coffee.

Suddenly, without any warning at all a Landcruiser crashed up over the sidewalk and stopped among the tables. Out piled a team of religious police waving their canes (one had a length of pipe). The Hummers evacuated in a heartbeat (though I saw them cruise past a few minutes later checking things out) and the crowd scattered for their cars. I heard the doors behind me snap shut and locks clattered home. The misters stopped misting. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the lights in Starbucks flick off and the last of the staff vanish out the back. Suddenly I was on my own, with a coffee and journal and all these religious police.

For a moment of foolishness I fancied I would finish the coffee, continue the journal and ignore these guys. After all, business would be humming again in twenty minutes and the circling Hummers would reappear and start over (the theory is that the police chase you off to prayers but they are like dogs disturbing seagulls - everything mills around while they bark but once gone everything settles into the original routine).

In my case my theory evaporated very quickly. I was their only target and they were not impressed with my insouciance. Never mind that I was a visitor. Or that I was a non Muslim. Even my line about not knowing there whereabouts of a local mosque was lost on them. In the end they trailed me the thirty minute walk back to my hotel. The only pedestrian and the only vehicle on the road for about ten minutes of the walk. It was not the most comfortable of ambles - and amble I did, just to keep them crawling. Only a visitor, but without a Hummer with which to circle, I needed some other way to fight back.

By the time I got back to the hotel prayers were over and everyone was out and about again. After a quick lap of the foyer I walked back to Starbucks and finished my refreshments. From this point on of course I moved when all the other sardines moved and made sure I stayed lost in the crowd. Being alone with those zealots was not something I wanted to invite on myself again.