(First) Voyage to India

It's been a whirlwind tour of two states (Bihar and Madyhar Pradesh) in India and Delhi in between. There is so much, which the road movie I've stitched together does not get across:  The street noise (lot's of honking, like in Cairo really), how people move, the dare-devil driving in traffic, traffic, traffic and of course, the food, most of which I thoroughly enjoyed (the yoghurty stuff reminded me of Turkey-Iran, it's a vegetarian haven, the spiciness seems unique ...). I joined CIMMYT management in a tour of two of three research stations, which will become part of the Borlaug Institute of South Asia, a joint venture with the Government of India. India is the world's second largest producer of wheat. I do hope you enjoy the travelogue video (I apologize about the low resolution, but could not upload a higher quality version).

Monet in Paris

A half-empty Lufthansa plane took me to Paris mid-October. Anti-pension-at-62-legislation protests were affecting French public life. Public transport was severely slowed down. But the new driverless shuttle from Terminal 1 to the train station ran swiftly. And an RER rolled into the station about 10 minutes after I arrived. Lucky devil! It was crowded already, full of people who work at the humungous airport and travellers. A woman sitting next to me was mobilephoning to her hearts' content. She must be working for customs, because she mentioned how many Chinese had been apprehended that day for carrying more than $10.000 in cash. They like to shop, don't they! Indeed, affluent Chinese and Russian tourists keep the French luxury industry alive and kicking. Michel Houellebecq's most recent novel "La carte et le territoire" picks up on this phenomenon. Just imagine: You go to your bank and take out $10.000 to go shopping. Amazing!

An African gentleman in front me was using two mobile phones to keep in touch.  Indeed, lots of people were phoning and messaging. In our society, everybody is somewhere else. The RER stopped at Gare du Nord; no connection to Chatelet because of the strike. So I hopped onto Metro No 4, then 7 and finally 9, to get to Franklin Roosevelt. A few steps later I stood in front of the Grand Palais with my online-reservation-prepaid-ticket, to see the grand Monet exhibition. The prepaid people generated a queue, too, though a shorter one than the on-the-spot ticket buyers. It was a breezy courtyard, so I was glad it didn't take too long to get in. Also, a short, extremely picky and bossy lady, who wore shoes that were supposed to look expensive, began to bother me. She was pushing around her husband. Their daughter intervened in typically French incomprehensible spurts; an awkward family. Of course, the bossy lady had accosted one of the guards, complaining that they had reserved tickets for 17:00 and weren't being let in. When we filed up the stairs, the guard made fun of her. 'She can't come in, she complained'. I was amused!

The exhibition organisers had vacuumed up the Monets from museums across the globe. That in itself was impressive. I particularly appreciated several paintings hanging in small museums: A Seine sunset from the Smith College collection (Massachusetts), a very impressionistic and atmospheric Gare St. Lazare from the Niedersächsisches Landesmuseum and a similarly atmospheric scene of the Gare d'Auteuil, which belongs to the Conseil General of Cergy Pontoise. There was much to compare: The Cote d'Azur panoramas, the Normandie coastline perspectives, the poplar tree views and the haystack landscapes. Monet had painted fifteen of them for the original exhibition. We were allowed to see six next to one another.

The exhibition was so expansive, it was hard to take it all in; impossible, in fact. It made more sense to take your pick. I did note that Monet had painted in at least three optically distinguishable styles: Flattish-simplifying, dotty-spotty (a bit like Seurat) and contrasting-turbulent (e.g. lots of movement implied by the colours and strokes).  Monet has created some breathtaking depictions of cloudy skies and rendered a practically abstract sleepy willow in 1920-22, though painting human bodies wasn't his forte, in my view. A whole room was devoted to impressions of Venice, where two of the most beautifully framed pictures could be found (Le Palais Contarini & The Doge Palace).

Slightly overwhelmed I walked down to the very busy Metro No. 1, got off at St. Paul and rang the bell of my friends' apartment in the part of the Marais, which leans towards the river. I was expecting to take them out for dinner, but instead about a dozen people, most of whom I knew, gathered for a lively dinner at their place.

One couple was considering investing in a property on the Ile St. Louis, to turn it into several corporate rental apartments. I pointed out to them that in doing so, they would be part of a trend, which makes it less and less feasible for regular, middle or working class people to live in town. Lots of wealthy investors have taken their funds out of the stockmarket and channelled it into real estate in London or Paris. Le Monde quoted a French investor, who lives in London, and put €15M into Paris real estate. Such people want to rent their newly acquired property to people like them; global urban hoppers, with adequate cash in their pockets. Add to that the very wealthy people, who keep a third or fourth home in Paris, which they use a few times a year perhaps - and you're crowding out 'regular' people, who can't afford the rent, or purchase, of a pad in one of the 20 arrondissements. The City of Paris has been using its stock of social housing to assure that nurses, metro drivers and rubbish collectors can continue to live in town. This in turn crowds out those people, for whom social housing was originally intended.

In my days (1984-5), there was Fauchon and a brand new traiteur near the Rue de Seine market. Now I note the results of a traiteur explosion. Fancy foods, well-packaged olive oils and chocolats in all shapes can be purchased in elegantly designed storelettes at every corner. Thankfully, you still have down-to-earth market streets like the Rue des Martyres in the 9ieme, offering local butcher ware, traditional patisserie and fruits 'n veggies. Round the corner is the Musee de la Vie Romantique, an oasis hidden in a courtyard next to a primary school. There I saw the most impressive painting of a lightening strike (by a Maksim Vorobiev) I ever seen! By the way, the art deco gallery, named the Galleries de Prado, pictured above, I stumble upon by chance, on my way up to the 9th arrondissement. An ungentrified treasure!

Aleppo - Italian-sounding Syria

There's so much I'd like to tell you about Aleppo in August; though I hardly saw anything of this Syrian city, one of the oldest continuously inhabited urban settlements on our planet (e.g unlike struck-down-by-the-Lord-Babylon or Mesopotamian Ur). The backache did not help (disk problem) and my focus was on facilitating the multi-issues, multi-stakeholder and multi-participant workshop, which took place 30 minutes outside Aleppo, at the International Centre for Agricultural Research in the Dry Areas ICARDA.

Just imagine though: The old Peugeots in town (ex-French colony), which integrate into a constant-juggling-for-position-but-fluid-nonaggressive traffic; the Mediterranean meza tapas food, the tractors and amazingly decorated trucks (like in India?) driving on the motorway, the motorcyclists driving in the opposite direction on the (so very close) highway's curb, the hot but dry climate, the sprawling built-upness of the city, the surprise of seeing trees lining streets, the bazaary inner-city shopping streets sub-divided into the 'diesel motor' or 'tyres alley' (I never even made it to the Souk), the Lebanese white wine I sipped whilst listening to the cacophony of muezzin callings on a hotel terrace in the Christian part of town; not to forget the general friendliness and the good-looking males; nor the shopkeeper laying out his praying carpet towards Mecca at five o'clock in the morning (backaches make you look out the window at that time of day). I hope to be back; maybe you, too?

First time Africa

45 years of confinement to the Western world (does that include Istanbul and Abu Dhabi?) have finally been surmounted. On a Tuesday I learnt that I shall be on a plane to Nairobi, Kenya, Africa, Sunday next.

Was I excited? Yes! though knowing, I would not see much of this continent, country and city, which I had never set foot on. I would be attending a workshop in a hotel all week.

So what! A 6:30 flight took me to AMS. I got to know parts of Amsterdam's Schipol airport I had never seen. Then I boarded an aged and pretty full 747 to Nairobi and proceeded to chat with a French engineer, who worked 'in oil (petrol)' and other industrial engineering, in many countries. He had recently moved to Mombasa, though he still had a home in Southern France; a nomad by (work)-choice. That's globalisation for you! In the smaller plane to Amsterdam, I had talked to a Hamburg doctor, who was heading to safari in Kenya. He would be flying to Kilimanjaro airport. I thought he was pulling my leg, until he showed me the airport location on the map in the in-flight magazine. That's globalisation for you, of the tourist kind! At that point, it struck me that to ask developing countries to contribute to mitigating climate change was truly a western, cheeky joke!

Back to 'my' 747. Flying down the Italian shoe, the monstruous plane cruised above the Mediterranean for about 1/2 hour. I know, because I was looking out the window to experience that moment; when we would hit the shores of Africa, in this case Libya. The lightish blue of the Mediterranean was replaced by the reddish yellow of the Sahara desert. It took a good 2 hours to traverse it. What where those concrete installations in the middle of nowhere, down there? Rocket launch installations? Terrorist training camps? What was that airstrip doing there in nomansland? Towards the end of the desert, I could identify circular irrigated fields, some wet, some fainted, some dry. Though I did not wonder what might be grown on those fields, I was struck by the size of the African continent, which is hardly illuminated at all. Even in the Alps, you see lights at night.

We landed at Nairobi's Kenyatta airport in the dark. With my 5-day bag, I got out of the airport pretty fast, after having purchased a visa. I quickly identified the sign, which Martin, the driver, had held up, among the mass of chauffeurs waiting for their prey. Because it was my first time in Africa, Kenya, Nairobi, he made a detour, passing through the centre of town. Not very enticing, but a very friendly gesture nonetheless.

And so I arrived at the Sarova Panafric Hotel, which I would not leave for 5 days, but for 3 short excursions (a dinner, visiting the International Livestock Research Institute and an hours' walk in the city centre).

The next morning, I swam in the agreeably cool pool, all alone (it's too cold for most people, but I'm used to the North Sea). During a cigarette break from the workshop, I saw lots of mini-busses on the avenue, which led to downtown. They had very entertaining names plastered on their windscreens: Happiness, Babyface and other names. I was told that people chose particular mini-busses according to the kind of music they played inside; the 'image' they had. Otherwise, people might opt for the KBS, the public transport busses. In the afternoon, a vast array of school busses transported girls and boys in red or green uniforms, which naturally reminded me of England. I've also seen schooluniformed children walk by the wayside of busy roads, which I doubt any Western European mother would allow their brood to do.

The three outings from the hotel took us to a Brazilian restaurant with lots of meat, the aforementioned agricultural research center, which is agreeably nestled in the hills on the outskirts of the city, with a view of the Kilimanjaro, if you're lucky (we weren't) - and the walk into town, during which I got to know a Zimbabwean teacher (refugee), who spoke a little German and very elegantly succeeded in making me give him some money. I did not doubt his account of his recent experiences, but apart from that, he did an excellent job of insinuating himself into my path.

What else did I see and learn? Little. Kenyans drink milk with tea, not tea with milk. Most men wear big, elongated shoes. Most peoples' teeth are startingly white (ok, contrast). The air can be fresh, when there's no rush hour. The city park features lots of dry grass. Nairobi residents thrive on petrol, there's no non-automobile transport to speak of, apart from walking (or biking). I saw a corrugated iron-roofed slum and it's "market street", running along the highway. As we rushed by in a Land Rover, I saw the most colourful patchwork clothing on sale at one of the stores.

In the hotel enclave, I met laughing Philippines, joking Tanzanians, headshaking Indians and positive Americans during the workshop. We could have been anywhere. We were surrounded by many hotel staff, in orange, yellow or blue jackets or full, dark suits. At night, a security person was stationed on every floor, wearing a lilac uniform. Many other workshops took place beside ours, including one for lots of women, organised by a local savings bank.

Indeed, I have seen little of Africa, Kenya, Nairobi. Perhaps I shall have the chance to go back.

When in love, go to Venice

and bring your wellies, if you intend to visit this most wonderful of laguna cities. Jan and I did not, which is just as well, as it gave me the perfect excuse of purchasing stivali pescatori (fishermen's rubber boots) to splash through the high tide. We bought our wellies in a charming household goods store in the San Polo quarter. This involved walking to the store's little warehouse rooms, where Gianni searched through big boxes to show us the newest wellie models. We then paid for our wellie selection, back at the store.

Breathtaking: the Ca' Rezzonico, Venice's 18th century museum palazzo, remains one of the most beautiful museums I've enjoyed to date (PS: You can look at tons of images of the ex- and interior on the web). It now has a huge collection of 18th century painting at the top, from whose windows you can wonder at the impressive panorama reaching to the snow-capped Alps, beyond the town and laguna waters. Simply wonderful!

First time Corsica

Did I meet a Corsican whilst visiting the Mediterranean island for the first time? I'm not sure. The taxi driver at Bastia airport came from the French mainland, as did all the friends at the pied-a-l'eau house in Ajaccio, from which I so seldom ventured away. Maybe reading that comic strip about these apparently slightly off islanders is some form of getting to know. In comic exaggeration, they are portrayed as permanently fighting French state domination in chaotic, inter-warring factions, when not hiding in the Macquis (underbrush), being pursued by a similarly feuding set of French government agencies, getting no closer to Corsican independence, which the majority of the island does not care for, anyway.

When flying to Corsica for the first time, I wholeheartedly recommend taking the train cross-island. My route was the 4-hour Bastia (Northern Corsican province) to Ajaccio (Southern Corsican province) one; other routes are on offer. In those never boring 4 hours you will get a feel for the 2,000+ meters mountains, the all-enveloping macquis, the sheep, the gorges and the mostly Italian, German or Dutch 'wanderer' tourists. On my train we had a little Napoleon who engaged several groups of people in highly gesticulating conversation about what-not (didn't hear), which seemed to perturb some and amuse others. Maybe he was agitating for Corsican independence?

The train descends into a valley to reach Ajaccio on the western coast, transversing the main road into town several times before terminating at the station, which, from an urbanistic perspective, seems entirely mis-placed. A great way to arrive, though.

One settled, you can then proceed to go on extensive hikes, swim in the rivulets, which flow through the gorges and eat super-stinky or mild varieties of sheep (or goat) milk cheese. Oh, I forgot the asses (donkeys) and wild boars, which are the source for excellent saucissons. I did not see any through the train windows. 

I regret to admit that I did not hike at all. Instead, I swam and kajaked around on the mostly quiet waters of Ajaccio bay, when not eating or reading. The sun always shone, fabulous! Of the trips away from the perfectly beachy house filled with French people, I remember this: Buying langoustines at the fishmonger's, which involved the usual chatting about food and giving it the respect it deserves. Of course, such a pleasurable experience is not confined to Corsica. Another time, I borrowed the wonderful open-deck beach car to drive into the hills above Ajaccio. Following spur-of-the-moment decisions about which direction to take, I ended up in the village of Alata, most definitely populated by dogs and cars, but with no people to be seen, at mid-day. It felt terribly conspiratorial, this place - I had read the comic strip by that time! Maybe the inhabitants were hatching out another bombing plan. I felt so uncomfortable that instead of walking around a little I turned the Simca around, the village being a dead-end, to return to the coast. Doing so, I noted a huge maison de maitre, perhaps 4 stories tall, plonked all alone on the steep slopes of an otherwise macquied mountain. Who had put this house there and why?

The train journey back was just as enjoyable, though half of it was to be completed by coach. I recommend you find out at which times the train does the complete 4-hour route.

First time Abu Dhabi (2007): travelogue

Talking about where we would live in future, what to go see on our planet; those were favourite topics of discussion with Brussels-based friends of mine. A move was in the works, but when they called me in August to say it would be Abu Dhabi, rather than London or the Netherlands, I was genuinely surprised, and grabbed the occasion to confirm a visit in December. 

I have never been this far East. My sense of geography was appropriately inadequate, sublimely unaware of the fact that it would take 6 hours to fly there from Paris, that a 3 hour time difference underlined the non-European centredness of the United Arab Emirates, and that the beautiful nature reserve island off Jemen, which I wanted to visit, was miles away from the UAE, at the bottom of the Arab peninsula. No Mediterrenean in sight.

The Paris hub assembled a truly international mix of passengers. I imagined Texan oil-rig workers, US military personnel, Indian wheeler-dealers, Arab tourists on their return journey, European real estate professionals, as I scanned the passengers waiting in the terminal for the delayed take-off. In-flight entertainment included the first lightening storm I have ever seen from above. It was a breathtaking spectacle to see lightening bolts form below, illuminating the storm clouds across a great expanse. Bright lights greeted from Dubai as we came close to ‘atterisage’. Once landed, we taxied around as if in Chicago O’Hare or Heathrow. Clearly we weren’t the only ones who had just landed, because an enormous gush of passengers assembled in the largest immigration hall I have ever seen, forming 30 or so endless queues, waiting to be processed by black-clad Arab women or white-dishdashed males. Never before have I seen so many people patiently waiting. Is this the new Ellis Island? Once in a while, a white-clad official looked across the sea of people from a gallery in this huge hall, shaking his head in amazement. My guess is, it took a good 1,5 hours until I got out of there, which is probably fast compared to immigrants’ experience in Ellis Island.

My friends had arranged a pick-up, which required going to a rent-a-car desk in Arrivals, where a friendly Indian from Kerala proceeded to phone the driver, who would take me to Abu Dhabi. Because he couldn’t communicate very well with the driver (as I had already experienced), who turned out to be Syrian, he called somebody else to do so. In the end, the Indian took me to a parking deck, sooner or late the Syrian arrived with his Mercedes, and off I was to Abu Dhabi, a 1,5 hour drive away.

Dubai is essentially a huge construction site. This was my immediate impression, confirmed on my daylight return journey to the airport. The Syrian driver, who has 6 children and been working in the UAE on and off for nearly 30 years, drove me past various arrays of half-completed skyscrapers, including the world’s tallest (for the moment), of which real estate investors buy chunks (e.g. several floors), only to resell them to someone who sells them again, so that by the time the skyscraper is actually habitable, a number of investors have already made a tidy profit.  We then proceeded past huge industrial sites, the desert, spicked with villa villages and lit-up mosques, to arrive in Abu Dhabi, which is surrounded by semi-constructed suburbs with detached villas. I never saw the sea (Persian Gulf).

So I arrived in the compound, Mangrove Village, all in rose’ hue, at about 3:30 am. A brief chat with my friend, a look around the house, and into bed.

The children came into my room at about 8 am. We caught up over an extended breakfast, which included poolplay with the kids. I was briefed on expatriate life and requirements in Abu Dhabi, which can be inadequately summarised as well-serviced housing (working air-conditioning in particular, as summertime means 45 C and full-power humidity) adequate schools for the kids, household help and the ability to buy alcohol once the residence permit goes through. This compound featured a common pool area and gym. The compound beach faces a port area. I was reminded of British Victorian terraced housing, with a number of added features thrown in.

In the 25 C afternoon we joined a treck of mostly Land Cruiser-type cars outside St. Andrews Church in semi-central Abu Dhabi, to drive out into the desert. After about an hours’ drive we all stopped along a particular spot among sand dunes, where tables had already been set out, for this communal expatriate barbecue and carol singing. There wasn’t much mixing among the expats, though people walked up to the highest dunes to get a view of the endless desert, looking out towards Saudi Arabia. I chatted with an Indian, who has been here for 10 years, as well as with a man born and bred in the UAE, on top of a dune. The tone of our conversation was set by the Indian’s comment about the “forests” in the desert, those large, often fenced-in plantations of shrubs along the highways. Greening the desert had been the UAE founding father’s dream. He had united 9 tribes to create this country.

People began their barbecues and picnicking, as did we, once the sun had spectacularly set. As torches and candles were lit, the carol singing began. The organisers had brought an electric piano and a PA system, and asked the guests to shout out the number of their favourite carol song in the photocopied songbooklet, which had been handed out to everybody. So people proceeded to shout out numbers after the first song had been jointly sung, on a holy Muslim Friday night, in the UAE desert; Christmas carols sung under the starlit ‘Morgenland’ sky.

As Violette is barely 19 months old, we drove back a little earlier than most, my friends got the kids into bed, and we opened a tasty Bandol I had brought from CDG airport. Their first taste of wine in a long time.

On Saturday, we returned to the desert. This time, we wanted to have a peek at the Dubai Desert Conservation Area (DDCA), which included a fancy resort. We didn’t make it past the Al Maha gate. Despite persistent telephoning with the fancy Emirates resort reception, whilst the gate guardians looked on, we were not allowed beyond the gates. One had to have a reservation at the resort to enter the DDCA. Oh, and people with kids below 12 need not bother. The absurdity of not being able to have lunch at a hotel in the middle of the desert without a reservation struck me as an interesting twist on Arab hospitality and the ultimate faux-pas of the UAE hospitality industry. So we turned around and filled up on petrol, which is an awe-inspiring experience for every European; they might as well give it away for free!

Quite the opposite was the welcome we received at the Bab El Shams resort, also in the middle of the desert, half an hour away from the DDCA. Though we first headed for the desert restaurant, which was closed, we quickly found our way to hotel resort reception, where a charming employee offered us sweets and Arabian spiced coffee. After this ritual we found our way through the generously spaced pool area to the restaurant, which offered an ‘international lunch buffet’. Wee proceeded to pick from it for an extended period of time. Have you ever eaten strawberries in the desert in December?  Their wine list was extensive, though the most ‘local’, Lebanese wine, was unavailable, as was the Entre-Deux-Mers, so that we ended up drinking screw-top New Zealandese from the other end of the planet, most fitting with the strawberries (which might have come from Israel, who knows).

Before arriving at the resort, we had passed by the remnants of a road accident, involving a very expensive Mercedes sports car and its mirror-sunglass Arab owner. We also saw some type of race track, which we interpreted as a motorcar race track, because expensive SUV’s were driving along it, though in fact it was a horse racetrack we saw, which had attracted ‘Tout UEA’ at about 6 a.m. this morning. Before we got that far, we had already passed by a prison or well-protected military garrison, set in flatish desert.

The resort is a modern-day oasis, I suppose. Landscaped pool areas, green grass, strawberries and many service staff in the middle of nowhere. Walking up the steps to the beautifully laid out roof-top “pizza restaurant” made this very plain. Sandy desert, far and wide, surrounded the resort – quite extraordinary. As we, and other multilingual expats, were having lunch outside, a group of Near Asian workers were in the process of setting up an event tent of sorts on the green grass. It did not make sense to me how they organised their work. Once in a while they would all be very amused. Maybe this was all set up for a wedding, some of whose (German-speaking) guests we came across in the lobby. Whilst I was waiting there for a few minutes with the 3 kids, two lady employees proceeded to cheek-a-pue Violette and fondle her brother – no tactile inhibitions! It was time to head back, and leave the assembling wedding party to their own devices.

When you drive along UAE highways, which struck me as very American because of their lane-width and signage, you often see people waiting on the curb – if not attempting to cross the 5-lane road, for whatever time-saving reason (time-saving indeed, as such moves often turn out to be mortal inshallah). Clearly, there is another social network and economy, not directly connected to the Land Cruiser-expatriate or Bentley-local elite one, which functions by some collective help principle, including giving people a ride. They make up 80% of the population, after all.

The US strip mall has, in the UAE, been converted into galleried bazaars, assembling shops along the highway, often placed all on their own, with no other urbanisation around them. Advertising plaques cover completely. Mosques are also strategically placed along highway exits, maybe as drive-in churches for the 5-times-a-day prayers, with a slight petrol station feel to them. On the foliaged mid-highway seperation strip, you can also see praying mats directed towards Mecca.

As one overspeeds along the highway, whilst Porsches and US compacts race past at even higher speeds, villa villages fly past. The architectural style would best be described as ‘Grand East German pre-fab concrete’. Hardly any of the buildings I have seen, be they tall, large or small, feature any raffinesse. Most are slab, made out of pre-fab elements, including the fences or walls that surround the buildings. Any décor is distinctly industrial, repetitive. I wonder how all the infrastructure – water, electricity and the like – has been shoved under the sand.

Returned from Bab El Shams that evening, we unwound by the pool and planned the next day (Sunday, a working day). The husband off to work, the kids in school, we drove into Abu Dhabi town with Violette. First stop was to be Marks & Spencer, which sits in a small mall, decorated with the largest of Christmas trees. The mini-mall stands opposite the ‘White Fort’, a 17^th century original ruler’s residence, which would fit into the current Presidential Palace’s kitchen, I believe. Most visible upward mobility! Malling done, we wondered along Indian textile stores in the shadow of the city’s skyscrapers. Because there are no taxes of any note, other than a 5% import duty on everything that comes into UAE, prices are low, compared to most of Europe. And just about everything is shipped into UAE, befitting its trade post past and contemporary consumerist civilisation. Going to the mall has been refined into an art form of sorts, surpassing US suburban standards. Abu Dhabi’s best, whatever that means, is the Marina Mall, which unites Tiffany’s, Carrefour and Ikea. The weather helps, because in summer it’s so hot that nobody (with a car) walks outside, but spends time in private or public (e.g. mall) airconditioned space. Most of UEA’s oil is found in the Abu Dhabi emirate, which has surely encouraged its citizens to opt for ‘car country’. Just like in L.A., you drive everywhere. I suppose the idea of turning the traditional camel ‘caravane’ into a public transport infrastructure did not cross anybody’ mind. At least I saw a metro being built along the highway in Dubai city.

After light shopping, we drove to the fish market. This area seems to catch Abu Dhabi’s origins, as a trading and fishery centre, most. Out-of-service- dhows have their funerary yard here, opposite moored ships hailing from Iran, India and god knows where else. Just outside the fish market, older men offer their fish-carrying services, with a plastic tub. We declined and moved inside. The variety and freshness of the fish exhibited is pure pleasure to take in. Though at this time of day it wasn’t very hubble-and-bubble, it was a thriving, noisy market nonetheless. The sight completely obliterates ones’ European concerns about fish population depletion. Maybe there are no more tunas to speak of in the Mediterreanan, but here! Purchasers of fish can have their bought catch taken to a grilling or baking station at the back of the market. All done and tasty, they can be picked up a few hours later. Brilliant!

Though I was tempted to go for an extended walk among the multi-ethnic ‘pietons’, Abu Dhabi is not a city one gets to know by walking. There is simply not much to see and discover, compared to Istanbul, Basel or San Francisco. You’ve got the skyscaper city center, the relatively ugly Corniche, government buildings, which look like the ones of those secretive corporations outside Washington D.C., flanked by residential areas of varying degrees of drabness, among which some apparently spectacular private palaces are sprinkled. Wide roads criss-cross the lot. So we drove to pick up the children from their pretty school in the middle of a building site, where a new ‘quartier’ shall soon shine, and headed back home.

Dressed-up as an angel in the afternoon, the oldest of the three kids was to be part of a Christmas carol event organised by her new school. That is why we trecked to the Emirates Palace Hotel, which is so grand that it features a sloped palm garden driveway to its Arab Versailles entrance. Tires squeek on marble. The performing kids and parents were assembling in the huge hotel halls (not just one!), once again populated by an enormous number of staff. We had some tea. The kids delivered a wonderful show, next to a small lit-up Christmas tree – the one from the mall would have been more appropriate here – and were offered hot dogs and yummy mini-burgers by the hotel, afterwards. It was quite a sight to see expats gathered on a Sunday to hear their children sing, for all to hear who were in the hotel. UAE-Muslim tolerance of other religions and their rites is clearly high. I doubt the local Hamburg mosque could have organised something equivalent in Hamburg’s Four Seasons.

After this big occasion, we decided to stop by a Lebanese place to get some take-away, naturally waiting in the car with the motor on. No Lebanese wine, this time, either, though the restaurateur promised to arrange for it next time, if one called in advance. After dinner at home, we sat on the porch with a Dutch couple, old friends of my friends, who had arrived in the morning, to check out schools and housing, as they too were moving to Abu Dhabi early next year.  They had lived in Oman for a number of years, before returning to Holland. The sultanate next door to UAE has a stunning coastline, is enclosed by a breathtaking mountain range; its architecture is attractive, human scale and referential to Oman’s building heritage.  ‘Western fun’ and skyscrapers in Dubai are a 4 hour drive away.

It’s been a desertwind of a weekend. The next day, I need to return home, so a car was arranged. The driver had come from Palestine (Ghaza) – not that day, ofcourse - and lived with his wife, a teacher, and young child, in one room in one of those villa villages by the highway. He showed me his paycheck, 1500 dhirams net per months (about €300; PS: the trip to Dubai costs ca. €60.). UEA offered varying degrees of opportunity, which is ultimately assessed in the eye of its beholder. €300 is an opportunity for someone from strife-torn, economically-depressed Ghaza. The Syrian driver surely had economic reasons for returning to the UAE for work, as do all the hotel staff and the expats they serve. Unfortunately, I only met one ‘local’ Abu Dhabian, though one must not forget that they only represent roughly 10% of the actual population.

As we hit Dubai, we hit a traffic jam. It gives you a little more time to wonder who on earth is going to live in all these half-finished skyscrapers. Will they remain, or will a huge sandstorm cover them up, whilst the rising sea-levels eat up the beach compounds and palm islands? But that is not the point. UAE is a young country, going through enormous, well-financed change, quite rapidly. The construction sites are but an outward symbol of ‘inner’, non-visible change. Maybe the comparison with post-war Germany, building-into-the-sky early 1900’s New York, or sprawling 50’s L.A. is more helpful, to vaguely understand what I have seen.

Dropped off at the airport, the check-in, security and passport control was a swish affair, quite the opposite of my arrival. The duty free area did not strike me as a ‘shopper’s paradise’ – given, what I had heard – it’s a bit tacky, really, with ‘international standard’ items. I was glad to board the plane to get back to a world, where I had my bearings. But whose world is that, really? The Malayan sitting next to me, told me about his current assignment; to purchase an apartment in Monte Carlo for an Abu Dhabian.