How On Earth Does BA Stay in Business?

What is the most dreadful job in the world? Surely top of the list must come the poor blighters who run the call centre for British Airways – possibly the call centre dealing with the most disgruntled customer complaints in the world.

 

You can imagine it can’t you – every time they answer the phone they just know someone is going to be shouting at them telling them what a crap airline BA is and demanding that they do something – ANYTHING FGS – just so long as they don’t get put back to the end of the queue yet again … assuming that is that they even managed to speak to a human being after having to listen to BA’s awful totally meaningless recorded platitudes for another hour and a half, or however long it took them to get through in the first place.

 

 

Let me make my position clear. I LOATHE British Airways and have loathed them for over three decades. Their rudeness, incompetence and lack of anything remotely resembling customer service makes me wonder how they can have remained in business so long. Unfortunately I had no choice when flying back from Beijing to the UK recently. And thus I made the acquaintance over the internet of one Mr Faisal Shaikh. I don’t feel angry with him – after all, he is only doing his job. But it’s what he stands for that I can’t stand.

 

Let me explain… I was booked on Etihad Airways, the “national airline of the UAE” (though many think that the Dubai-based airline Emirates better deserves this title). The flight was due to leave at just after midnight local time, but owing to a heavy storm that had worked its way up through China from the Philippines, the airport was closed down for eight hours and by the time we eventually took off it was clear we would never be able to make our connecting flight in Abu Dhabi.

 

 

Etihad acted efficiently – once we had reached Abu Dhabi (though in Beijing they were noticeable by the lack of any information they gave us.) As we deplaned, we were directed over to a customer service desk and within two minutes I was handed two new tickets – not directly to Manchester as I had originally planned, but to Heathrow and thence to Manchester via the planet’s least favourite airline.

 

Don’t worry, I was told; your luggage is already on its way and it should be with you when you reach Manchester.

 

Now, as everyone who knows me well will tell you, I’m a distrusting and cynical kind of guy. So when we finally arrived in Heathrow and managed to make my way over to the airport’s (truly ghastly) Terminal 5, the first thing I did was to go to British Airway’s “Customer Service” desk to check that my luggage would be safely forwarded to Manchester.

 

The girl behind the desk smiled at me (is this a first, I wonder? Maybe she was about to end her shift.) She checked her computer, dialed in my name and confirmed that I had two bags coming through and they would definitely be on the Manchester connection. Well, what more could one ask? My estimation of BA went up for their efficiency in being able to confirm with such accuracy what was happening to my luggage. Had they really turned over a new leaf?

 

Haha … as if….

 

On arrival at Manchester neither of my cases showed up on the baggage belt (what a surprise!). I reported to the baggage manager and was asked to fill in a long form – along with five other passengers who were similarly affected. Don’t worry, he said. No doubt they will turn up on the next flight. After all, there was only a 90 minute turn around at Heathrow.

 

I forbore to point out to him that efficient airports around the world manage turn around times much shorter than this – in particular Zurich airport which actually schedules its transit connections in under 45 minutes … and I have never found one of my bags missing the connecting flight there.

 

Sure enough after the next flight from LHR arrived – one and a half hours later – one of my bags magically appeared on the carousel, which is more than could be said for the bags of the other passengers who had waited in vain for their belongings. I felt particularly sorry for a Chinese guy who was about to start a six-month course at Lancaster University, now without any luggage whatsoever.

 

 

But of my other case there was no sign. Back to the baggage manager again. This time I was given a customer reference number and told to log in to a web site the following morning to see where the case was currently languishing.

 

BA, in common with most airlines, is a member of a World Tracer mechanism into which the numbers of lost bags the world over are entered and a computer magically matches them up with their grief-stricken owners on the other wide of the world.

 

With trembling hand and heart a-flutter I dial into the web site and enter my number. The form correctly tells me I have already got back one of my bags and, as I expected, confirms that the other has not been found.

 

 

I check the site again the following day, and the day after and the day after that; but each time the answer is the same. So I finally click on the Contact Your Airline Tab and enquire what is going on with the search for my missing bag. It is now that I make my acquaintance with Mr Shaikh, all of eight days later, when he finally replies…

 

Dear Mr Salter, he writes;
Thank you for your email dated 05 July 2013. I am concerned to read about your missing bag whilst flying with us to Manchester on 02 July 2013. I recognise how frustrating it must have been for you. Please accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience caused.
Well, full marks to Mr Shaikh so far, though I suspect this is purely the first copy-and-paste paragraph from BA’s armoury of keep-the-cuastomer-quiet platitudes.

 

At British Airways we aim to give an outstanding service to all of our customers at every step of their journey with us.
Oh really? Since when, I ask myself.

 

The large majority of bags travel with their owners. However, we let you down on this occasion, and I am sorry.
Ah, another apology. Maybe I have been unfair to BA all these years and they really have turned over a new leaf.

 

If a bag misses a flight for any reason, we aim to load it on the next available flight so it is reunited with its owner as soon as possible. However, there are occasions when we have the wrong information and we are unable to re-flight baggage before investigations are carried out. This then results in baggage missing the next available flight.
Well, in fairness Mr Shaikh did not know I had already checked with BA’s own Information girls at Heathrow who had assured me that both bags were on their way to the Manchester flight.

 

For information on the status of your baggage, you can click on the link given below and go to ‘Baggage tracking service’. Enter your last name and file reference, which is AHL MANBA61301.
Oh no, Mr Shaikh. I have been doing that for eleven days now and am getting somewhat fed up with the same lack of information being shown.

 

Alternatively, you can call our baggage tracing helpline on 0844 493 0785. Thank you again for taking the time to bring this matter to our attention. We will do everything we can to reunite you with your belongings as swiftly as possible.
Best regards, Faisal Shaikh, British Airways Customer Relations

 

I try ringing the number given. And try… and try…. But give up over an hour later when I tire of listening to BA’s obnoxious messages telling me that I am their number one priority and they are there to help me.

 

I write to BA’s “Customer Service” again asking WTF is going on? Once again, Faisal Shaikh reaches for his copy-and-paste list of platitudes and fires off another missive to me.

 

Dear Mr Salter - Thank you for coming back to us. I am concerned that you have still not received your luggage. I completely understand how frustrating it must have been for you. Please accept my sincere apologies for the inconvenience caused.
Wow this guy is so understanding. If only they were all like this at BA.

 

As mentioned earlier, for information on the status of your baggage, you can click on the link given below and go to 'Baggage tracking service'. Enter your last name and file reference, which is AHL MANBA61301. Alternatively, you can call our baggage tracing helpline on 0844 493 0785.
But I have already tried doing that which is why I wrote to you again!

 

I hope you will find this helpful. Best regards, Faisal Shaikh, British Airways Customer Relations
Actually, I’m afraid I find this anything but helpful and my patience is wearing very thin!

 

I try the 0844 number again ... and this time after a mere 28 minute wait I find myself talking to a real person. I give my customer service reference number and wait while said person looks up his electronic file.

 

So, Mr Salter, you flew from Abu Dhabi to Manchester via Heathrow, But our investigations tell us the bag is not in Abu Dhabi, so our search continues at Heathrow, he tells me helpfully. Except, I tell him, I started my journey in Beijing.

 

Oh, he answers in reply. Did you? Well, unfortunately as a month has now passed since your bag went missing it is too late to check out with Beijing if they have found the bag.

 

I am outraged. So all this time, bloody British bloody Airways hasn’t even checked with my point of departure and now they tell me it is too late!

 

I go to their compensation page and start to fill out the ridiculously long form I am presented with. I have to fill in the items I think are in the bag. Does anyone remember exactly what went into a bag they packed five weeks ago? Was it ten, or twelve or maybe thirteen shirts I packed? Was it three pairs of jeans or four? What about the small items that I put in there which I am blowed if I can remember? And what about a computer hard drive I placed in there – one of 12 that I have?

 

Anyway, I write down what I remember and send in a claim for £570. Quite reasonable in the circumstances I reckon, given that most of the clothes listed were practically brand new. But once again BA shows its true colours when Faisal Shaikh writes his next copy-and-paste missive…

 

Dear Mr Salter - Thank you coming back to us. I am sorry to read about your missing bag. I would like to assure you that the large majority of baggage that travels with us does not get mishandled.
Hang on, we’re surely past this stage aren’t we?

 

At British Airways we aim to give an outstanding service at every step of the journey (I think we have already covered that – and I still don’t believe you!) and we do our very best to ensure your baggage is handled with care. However, all the checked-in baggage has to go through a complex process on its way to and from the aircraft. So unfortunately, it is virtually impossible to pinpoint what happened.

With this in mind we advise our customers to place any fragile or valuable items in their hand baggage including laptops, personal electronic devices, share certificates, bonds, business documents, passports and other identification documents. Unfortunately this means we do not accept liability for the hard drive you have lost and I am sorry for any disappointment this may cause. It is standard practice for customers to claim directly on their travel insurance policy when items are missing from their checked baggage.

 

So now we get to the heart of the matter. BA are trying to slither out of their responsibility (which you will note Mr Shaikh has already acknowledged) by saying that because they “advise” against packing certain items they will not cover their loss. Worse, they are “assuming” their customers take out travel insurance so that they don’t have to cover the loss themselves.

 

Apart from the fact that I never actually booked on this miserable airline, I look up their standard terms – and there it is in black and white (well, actually, blue and white) … “In line with other airlines we cannot accept claims for loss to items in checked baggage which are … of special value.”

 

Or, to put it another way, BA reserves the right to decide what is of special value or not. Presumably if I had been carrying a suit worth, say, £200, they would have covered this. But because I chose to pack a hard drive worth a quarter of that value they won’t. Where is their logic?

 

 

So that I can deal quickly with your claim for other missing items, please send me the receipt, card slip, insurance valuation, quotation or any other document to support the value of your missing property at the address mentioned below. Please mark our Customer Relations reference number on the letter.

Oh FGS another weasel scam. How many people do you know who keep all their receipts of clothes etc bought? I reply once more:

 

“Frankly I am disgusted by the way British Airways not only obviates itself from any responsibility for losing baggage, but also from then also making up its own rules for compensating its passengers so as to avoid paying proper compensation! Unsurprisingly I have no receipts for the items that were in my luggage. How many of your passengers after all keep all their receipts for items bought?”

But this cuts no ice with British Airways. According to them, it is surely our beholden duty to receipt everything we ever put into our luggage, otherwise…

 

In settling your claim we have taken into account the depreciation of your missing items. As you do not have any receipts, we have deducted 50% from the cost of the items listed.
Thank you again for contacting us and for giving me an opportunity to look at your case again. Your feedback is invaluable, without which we would not be able to address such issues. I hope our decision will not deter you from flying with us in the future.
Best regards, Faisal Shaikh, British Airways Customer Relations

 

Amazing! Does BA really think I will ever set foot in one of their miserable planes ever again? Am I alone? Am I a voice in the wilderness? It appears not, if a deluge of comments lifted from the web are anything to go by…

 

• Next time I need to travel business I will probably be asking my client specifically not to book me on a BA flight.
• You will not receive any responses from BA until you start sending them 20 emails/day. I will certainly not fly BA ever again in my lifetime!
• I have to submit an essay to do with the evaluation of British Airways and their customer care policies; something that has been extremely fun to do as i get to point out all the things they do wrong! You are probably the millionth person to tell me of just how awful the airline really is
• I have never come across a company that was so useless at dealing with complaints, what is funny is they told me they were unable to reply as they currently had 95,000 complaints, well that’s not a surprise BA your crap and no wonder your staff go on strike.
• When a person in a service department engages a customer, the goal should be to solve the problem, not recite meaningless phrases. This was our first trip aboard British Air and will no doubt be our last.
• A cautionary tale and note of assistance to all those who have suffered the misfortune of travelling with British Airways and experiencing their unique brand of so-called Customer Service: BA are an unmitigated disgrace when it comes to customer service and they totally ruined our wedding and honeymoon travel.
• We will never travel BA Again we will spend our money on a different airline that cares for their passengers and are polite and friendly towards us .

 

I think, Mr Shaikh, my point has been made. And yes, I know I should be feeling sorry for you and the awful job you are having to do… but forgive me. The fact is I don’t!

Screwed again!

My father was right. Never do business in the Arab world. You’ll get screwed, he warned. I hated my father, which is maybe why I first got turned on by the thought of getting a job in Saudi Arabia – a not-too-subtle way of putting two fingers up at him perhaps?

So it hurts my pride to admit it, but a decade later I moved to Abu Dhabi, fed up with not getting paid by Saudi clients…When I left I was owed some 150,000 riyal – over $40,000. The Emiratis, I thought, may not be as charming as the Saudis, but at least they pay their bills.

But this culture of screw the client, screw the supplier – or screw anyone for that matter – is still endemic across the Gulf region as a whole in a society that at the one time needs the foreign expertise it imports in abundance but at the same time resents having to admit that in so many ways they are simply not up to it.

Sometimes the lack of any kind of empathy with the client is simply staggering – such as today when I spotted a special offer in one of the supermarkets… for car windscreen de-icer!

Ignore the fact that outside it is currently 42 degrees Celsius; and that the weather forecasts warn of chilly nights ahead when the temperature so much as thinks of plummeting below 20 degrees. Heaven knows who they think will buy this stuff. Perhaps it is good for cleaning windows or killing off the swarms of cockroaches that are so common over here?

A recent high profile case of screw the man in the street occurred with the now-highly publicised case of Blackberry phones. Last year the phone companies launched a major promotion for Blackberrys with the result that thousands upon thousands of people purchased these wretched devices. This year we are told they are a security threat because of closed networking, so not only will text messaging be stopped, but also the reception of eMails.

To say there is widespread consternation would be an understatement. So many businesses had bought them to make it easier to stay in touch with their employees out on the road. But the government’s response is simple. Buy another phone. Who cares that you are out of pocket because the powers that be have decided – yet again – to change the rules as it suits them.

Well, thought I, I don’t use my Blackberry for eMails or for Blackberry texting, so I’m alright. As if! With my phone not even a year old, the battery now only holds its charge for less than two hours. So I took it back to Jumbo Electronics from where I bought the phone, clutching my one-year warranty.

Sorry, it’s not covered, I am told. Why not? The phone has given up working properly less than a year since I bought it. Batteries aren’t included in the warranty. See – it says “accessories not included”.

Since when is a battery, without which the phone will not work, classed as an accessory? Apparently when it suits the supplier – ie always in the UAE. The warranty is not worth the paper it is printed on.

As if to add insult to injury, the Jumbo salesman offers to sell me a new battery for AED175 – or $48 – or how about buying a smart new android phone – a snip at AED2,499, he tells me.

I silently suggest he goes take a running jump and flounce out of the Jumbo showroom, telling him I will never shop there again.

The problem is that I can’t just flounce out of the United Arab Emirates telling them I will never do business with them again. Which means I’m likely to continue getting screwed a while longer.

I haven’t told you yet about being screwed by my landlord; being screwed by the phone company; being screwed with my TV cable supply; being screwed by the car repair company…. Oh, I could go on, believe me. But in parting I would suggest you go look up a Facebook group called “I bought an apartment in Discovery Gardens and got ripped off”. Having moved from Discovery Gardens to Lakepoint Tower - the god-forsaken pile of junk I live in now, I ought to get round to posting on that site that they ain’t seen nothing yet! But this is the UAE. They probably are all too aware of that fact by now.

Immigration Officers

Pity those poor people working in immigration. It must be one of the worst jobs going. All those frightful travellers whooping it up as they set off for their hols leaving these poor souls to face another day of passport plonking.

At least, I suspect that could be one of the reasons that almost without exception, these miserable plonkers at Dubai Airport are hard pressed to raise a smile, or even to look at you, let alone to say hello, goodbye or thank you. It's the same at Doha airport. Hand out; grab passport; throw a passing glance to make sure that the outstretched hand actually belongs to the picture in the passport and after a predetermined wait the passport is all but thrown back at you.

Try saying hello; or murhabba; even as-salaam-aleikum. It's the same. Blank look; stifled yawn; plonk, plonk, plonk; throw back passport.

Does it really have to be like this? I mean, fly out of Abu Dhabi and the chances are you will be asked how you are, offered a sweetie (peppermint or fruit drop) and wished a pleasant journey. Return to Abu Dhabi and you're asked if you had a good trip. Oh, and welcome back to Abu Dhabi, of course.

It's the same in Riyadh. Welcome back to Saudi, says a beaming immigration official. No doubt you are glad to be back, eh? Al hamdullilah. Very glad, say I; and with a wave and a smile I am on my way.

On a recent trip to Sri Lanka, I was welcomed warmly by an immigration lady. I was asked where I planned to visit in their beautiful country and immediately was given suggestions as to what I really shouldn't miss, while fellow travellers patiently waited their turn in the queue. Finally I was thrown a lovely smile as my passport was handed back with grace and charm. What a great way to start a holiday!

Even in Indonesia – not famous for the level of English spoken by their officials – yet again Asian charm wins through and despite having a $10 note released from the confines of my wallet, I feel as if I am a valued customer – a visitor actually made to feel welcome in the streets of Java.

Fly to the UK and though you might not see the tears welling up in their eyes as you are wished a pleasant onward trip, you get a firm unequivocal good morning, and what passes for a smile – which, at 5.30 in the morning is not bad going. And that's equally true of Manchester Airport and Heathrow – the one we all love to hate.

Amsterdam's Schiphol is in a league of its own around five in the morning. Presumably the bosses aren't yet out of bed, for how else can you explain the good natured remarks thrown at any reasonably good looking chick in the queue in what passes for a valiant attempt at a chat-up line in her own language.

Cómo está? Apa kabar? Ogenki desu ka? The girls blush as each of the officials tries his chances at hitting on the poor wench while the hormones fly around unchecked. (And there was I thinking this behaviour was more appropriate for the Italians and Spanish!)

Of course, in all fairness to the Dubai officials, you simply cannot beat the US in measurements of rudeness and general unhelpfulness at the immigration counter. It doesn't seem to matter at which entry point you arrive, as far as they are concerned you are a terrorist, a nobody, someone looking in from outside desperate to partake of the American dream. (Hey, they even ask you in all seriousness on the form whether you are a terrorist or even if you have any intentions of committing terrorist acts while you are on US soil.)

But please Mr Paul Griffiths [CEO of DXB Airport] if you would like at one fell swoop to improve the lot of your hapless travellers so they didn't so much resent having to travel through your airport, could you - nay, would you - kindly send your immigration guys on a course to learn the rudiments of customer care? It sure would make a difference to all of us.

Alex Beckons

There can be no arguing that summer has finally arrived and with it the time for vacations, gushes Bjِörn Näf – the outgoing CEO of Gulf Air – in Gulf Life... that shining example of inflight magazines that captures the very essence of what living is all about.

Gulf has introduced three new holiday destinations to its schedules, and I have been invited to sample Alexandria courtesy of Bahrain's national flag carrier.

I'm not one to turn down a freebie. Surely it is time for a break from boring old Dubai…a break from the relentless sun, sand and sea. What could be more tempting than … sun, sand and … errr… sea?

I find myself deposited at Dubai Airport (Terminal 1 – that's the awful old one, for those not in the know) three hours before departure. Clutching my eTicket, I stride up to the Business Class check in and am greeted by a charming lady called Cuckoo. No, seriously. I kid you not. It's written on her badge .

What is your name please, Mr Brain, she asks me. Playing along to her seeming lack of intelligence, I proffer my passport to put her mind at ease that the name on my eTicket really does match the handsome guy in the photo . Cuckoo does what she has to do and soon I am able to rush off through Dubai immigration and on to the Business Lounge .

Do you have an invitation, I am asked by a somewhat bored looking female. I'm flying business class, I reply. Yes, but have you an invitation? You need one to come in here. I'm on the Gulf Air journalists visit to Alexandria, I inform her. The power of the press affects a rapid change of attitude and I am offered a piece of quiche with an alcoholic beverage.

Shortly after that it is time to board. Within a matter of moments, a luscious stewardess wants to know if I would be happy to partake of some Arabic mezze after take off. And what would I like to drink with it? Red wine? White wine? French? American? I ask if the American wine comes from California. No sir, luscious trolley dolly answers. It comes from Napa Valley. <sigh> She has obviously gone to the same geography school as the people behind Gulf Air's breathtaking maps in Gulf Life magazine which place Dubai at the northern-most tip of Oman, Doha due west of Abu Dhabi, and Manchester on the west coast of England .

I settle down to read up my final destination. "For a city that was once the rival of ancient Rome, Alexandria has little to show for it," remarks Gulf Life obviously anxious not to oversell on expectations. "Anyone lucky enough to be staying at the Four Seasons has access to the hotel's own private beach created with tonnes of specially shipped in white sand. The other decent beach is at Montaza… Otherwise join the locals as they drive out of the city…" This is a refreshing new approach to marketing, I decide and avidly read on, only to be interrupted as the tyres bump down on Egyptian soil.

We are met by charming tourism officials who ask for our passports and within minutes they have visas affixed and we are whisked at high speed to a fleet of waiting limousines that take us Monaco-Grand-Prix-style the 30 kms to the Four Seasons Hotel conveniently located on the Corniche.

I'm impressed. It's only 5.30 in the morning, but the hotel's PR girl is waiting for us in reception wearing a smile that looks more than half genuine. Would we like breakfast? Would we like mango juice? Would we like to go straight to our rooms?

We go straight to our rooms – large palaces of luxury overlooking the seafront as the sun struggles awake to face another day .

A three hour top up of zzzzs reinforces the more hardy of us as we meet up shortly after 9.30; and then it's off on another whacky races ride in an old beat up Lada taxi to visit the Montazah Palace gardens – a stunning area which used to be the summer retreat of the not-much-late-lamented King Farouq .

Next we head to the National Museum before being rushed to the citadel; and on to the amphitheatre; thence to the Library. And finally back to the hotel for lunch which includes a local delicacy - sea bass, which surely would have no right in claiming to have given up its life in vain .

Another car; another dash to the other end of town – this time to visit the grand mosque, the opera house, and to experience the metro. No, really… experience is le mot juste. Think of a series of carriages that travel 100 metres or thereabouts before stopping for some five minutes before moving on another 100 metres before stopping another five minutes … and on and on all the way to the end of the line. We spend half an hour like this before jumping off and trying to flag down a taxi back to the hotel .

And thence to a restaurant enticingly called The Fish. Alex is famous for its fish restaurants.

Afterwards, we are invited to partake of shisha and drinks on the beach. As the moon goes down over the horizon, the grueling hard work comes to a close .

It's tough being a journalist, but, we keep on telling ourselves, someone has to do it .

For the love of a Kia

I have to admit to having a love affair with my car. Well, not the actual car itself, you understand as it is, dare I say it, one of those ubiquitous grey boxes churned out by the Kia Motor Company and which sells to cheapos like me who drive their wives crazy by trying to save a few dirhams on the cost of a new car.

She (her indoors, the boss, my better half – call her what you will) thought she had cured me of this terrible affliction when we went from the sublime to the ridiculous many years ago.

I had been the proud owner of a Fiat 124 Sports car, paid for after a windfall payout for some work I had thrown together back in the heady ’70s. It was classy; it was fun; it was even (on occasion) a babe magnet. It was my pride and joy until the day the garage forgot to tighten up the oil sump screw and I became the proud owner of a pile of twisted metal.

Distraught – nay, devastated – I determined never to fall in love again (with my car that is) and plumped for an economical motor which wouldn’t blanche at the ever increasing price of petrol, following Sheikh Yamani’s OPEC price hike. And I found one. A car that most of my contemporaries have never heard of, even to this day.

It was a Honda 360. Sure, it was small, but it actually boasted a rear seat which, we later found out, was more in the spirit of hope over expediency. It sounded like a sewing machine running in overdrive which, it turned out, was not far off the mark. My wife took one look as I drove it up the garage path and almost exploded; which was nothing compared to the time I tried to manoeuvre up a steep hill which the 360cc engine had great difficulty in coping with until she-who-must-be-obeyed had to get out and walk, with the promise that I would meet her at the top of the hill… if the car ever made it. (It did!)

Fast forward 30-odd years and I find myself in Saudi Arabia looking for a cheap set of wheels. My criteria were simple. It had to be four wheel drive to cope with desert conditions; it had to have A/C; and it had to be “affordable” (or, in wife-speak: cheap). A Jeep Grand Cherokee with sumptuous black leather seats and dominating everything else in the car park around it called out Buy me! Buy me! siren-like as I kicked its tyres (why do people do that???), admired myself in the rear view mirror and finally parted with some well-earned cash to a Saudi gentleman who appeared well resigned to the fact that I had used my well-honed bargaining skills to beat him down by a large percentage of his original asking price.

Within a month I was cursing the Jeep in language that I had previously used for my Honda. Certainly it was a monster on petrol, but given the fact that I could fill its entire cavernous tank for around SR25 (except when I drove it across the border into the UAE where the price suddenly shot up three-fold) this wasn’t too much of a problem. The continuous drifting to the right caused by badly adjusted wheel bearings was easily corrected by sitting hunched up against the door. And the steady drip drip drip of oil, which marked out the territory canine-like around my apartment was something I learned to live with. More problematic was the ever-present scrunching noise that occurred whenever I had the temerity to change up to fifth gear, and the suspension which felt as if I was driving a sofa down the King Fahd Highway.

One day, I decided to drive the 1,000 kms from Riyadh to Dubai across a corner of the Empty Quarter via the southern route through Al Kharj, rather than the well worn Dammam Road. It’s a beautiful drive on the Saudi side, through rolling dunes kept at bay by an army of workers from the sub continent spraying black oil onto the ever shifting sands. I would catch myself laughing out loud whenever I caught sight of one of the many signs that admonished the driver that there were sand dunes on either side of him…. Just in case he hadn’t noticed!

Another of my favourite signs awaited me as I drove through the farther reaches of Abu Dhabi. “Beware of Road Surprises” it read. I have always assumed this to mean “Be prepared for the unexpected”; but I always wonder who it was that thought it up; and further, why no one had the temerity to question it before it went into mass production wherever it is they make these signs.

On this particular run, I blew a tyre some 100kms from the Saudi/Emirates border; my battery went dead when I parked over night in Dubai and a sudden sand storm on the return journey frosted out my headlights to the point where it was almost impossible to drive at night time. I also had to top up the oil in four different garages on the way home. Beware of road surprises? I’ll say!

I got rid of the American monster soon after that and began my love affair with Korean boxes on wheels.

They may look boring, have zero sex appeal and struggle to reach 120 in under half a minute… but, by golly, they are certainly cheap.

The sad tale of trying to get an Indian visa…

The following is an extract from a blog of my friend Sushmita Bose that I wrote for her in April 2009.

Yesterday night at 9.54 pm, I got this email from Brian. Think I told everyone that Brian plans to visit Delhi next week and he's been trying to organise an Indian visa. I thought this was hilarious, so will leave you with this till I get back to Dubai. (He was nice enough not to call me up and complain, and instead sent me a hugely entertaining mail.) And please, please, let's just enjoy this and not detect racist undertones! Also, let's all pray that he DOES get a visa; he's supposed to fly out next Thursday night. Meanwhile, enjoy!

Hiya

Yesterday I set off for the Indian Consulate near the Creek which took me hours to get to in the heavy traffic. Parked in the grounds of the Saudi consulate (thanks Saudis!) and walked round the corner to the Indians who were totally unhelpful. Walked halfway round the building before finding a room at the top of a flight of stairs which said Visas. (Well, actually it didn't. A sign saying visas was pointing the other way, but as it was the only room which looked like it could be used for some kind of service I assumed it was this one.) Aha, thought I (well one does, doesn't one?) Is this the right place for tourist visas, asked I, eyes all a-flutter, broadest smile extended to a guy who was standing there, staring into space - or where he probably assumed space to be. No no. Not here. You must go Pose Offeece. But I've downloaded the forms from the web site. See. I have them here. No no. Pose Offeece. You go!

Well this didn't seem right somehow, so as I wandered yet more corridors I waltzed into one called Attestation and asked there. Tourist visas??? No. Upstairs, says Indian chappie pointing back the way I had come. Upstairs again. Visas?..... No. Pose Offeece. Go yes?

Brian goes yes. And out into the blinking sunshine again, round to the Saudis, retrieve car and wonder what to do next.

Brainwave. I will go to the Pose Offeece. (Now why didn't I think of that before?) I head to Media City where I know there is one. Hello. I'm trying to get a visa to visit India. Can you help? This is a Post Office. Yes I know that, but I was told you could help. No Sir. This is a Post Office. Goodbye. Oh OK. Goodbye.

I jump back into the Brainmobile and head for home. Get on the web. Indian Embassy in Abu Dhabi says residents of Abu Dhabi can get a visa in 36 hours. I fill out new forms with my old Abu Dhabi address (what a wheeze! No one will suspect a thing!) This morning I drive to Abu Dhabi. Park outside the Saudi Embassy and walk round to the Indian Embassy. (What is this relationship Saudis have with Indians?) A Filipino security guard assures me you cannot get tourist visas at the Indian Embassy. I assure him I know better as it says you can on the web site. Oh OK, he says, backing down in the face of my superior knowledge. That way....

I go that way..... No signs saying visa. Not even signs pointing the wrong way. I go to the Attestation office (thinks: what do they do in an attestation office???). I see an Indian version of Bruenhilde (ie you wouldn't want to cross her path on a dark night down an unlit alleyway). Tourist visas??? I ask with my number one you're-the-girl-of-my-dreams smile spread across my face. Ha ha ha. No no. You have to go to Empost, she explains to me. They changed the rules two months ago. Didn't you know? But the web site says I can get a visa in 36 hours here at the Embassy. Ha ha. Tsk Tsk. No no. Empost. You go to Empost. Geddit? Empost. I got it. Empost.... And off I toddle.

I head back home, only stopping for an obligatory Big Whopper at my favourite petrol station, drowning my sorrows in a regular coke with no ice. I get on the internet. Empost. Yes. There it is. Where it is? There it is not a donkey's shake from the Indian Consulate I was at yesterday. (I have now discovered that Empost and Emirates Post are two separate organisations. Strange, since as I found out later, they occupy the same building.)

I drive to Empost, entering the building which says Emirates Post and discover tucked right down the far end a small counter with an Indian skulking behind it. A sign says Incredible India. I take this to be a good omen. Tourist visas for India? I ask. Yessir, he says, brightening up now that someone appears before him who doesn't look like he is going to berate him for the machinations of the Indian Consular service. Please sit over there. I sit over there. 30 seconds later he invites me into the back office. How can I help you? I'd like a tourist visa for India. Yessir. What kind of visa do you want? A tourist one. Yessir. And what kind do you want? (hang on a moment. I'm getting feelings of déja vu.)

How many kinds of tourist visas do you issue? We don't issue them. Hmmm. I think we have a miscommunication problem. Errr, I'm here to apply for a tourist visa, say I proffering the forms to him. Yessir. Ah you want a six month tourist visa. Good. We're back on track. He fills in an electronic form getting the details from my form. Where did you get this form? Off the internet. But it's the wrong form. Oh you got it from the Indian Embassy web site yes? Yes. Oh you should have downloaded it from the Indian Consulate web site. They use a different form in Abu Dhabi. (I checked. They do. It says Abu Dhabi on top instead of Dubai!)

Never mind; my new Indian best pal pulls out another form from his desk drawer and asks me to fill it out for him. I fill it out. He asks for money. I give him money. It will be ready in three working days he says....which means you will have it next Wednesday. (huh? Three working days? Not sure I get the maths there.)

What happens if it is not ready by then? It will be. But what if it's not? It will be. But who can I call if there is a problem? There won't be a problem. Yes, but what if there is? Here's the phone number of the courier. But what if the problem is that the courier company haven't yet received the passport? They will have. I see this conversation going off into the sidings. Perhaps it really will be OK. But I'll be happier when I finally get the passport in my hot and stickies again!

And there was I thinking that US Immigration took a lot of beating!

Wish me luck!

Part 2:

Have you ever tried turning off the alarm clock only to find the ringing doesn’t stop? Happened to me this morning. At 7.30. (Ouch. Didn’t know the day started before 8 ). My phone was going (if I’ve told them once at the office, I’ve told them a thousand times….) But no, it wasn’t the office. That Mr Brain? Sure, says I, struggling to come to terms with there being daylight outside. We have your passport. Oh wow, says I… but it’s only Sunday today. Yes sir, It is Sunday (I can hear this guy wondering down the phone if this Mr Brain is thick or something.) Where are you today? I’ll make sure I’m here at home if you tell me when you are coming.

(Am I dreaming this? But no. The sun is still shining.) We will deliver to your apartment between 2 o’clock and 4 o’clock. Is that alright? It surely is, says I. I’ll be here.

Now, I’ve been trying to work this out ever since I handed my passport in on Wednesday last. I was told my visa application would take three working days … and that I would therefore get it back next Wednesday. Well, I finally figured that out. Three working days would include Thursday; not Friday, it being UAE weekend. Not Saturday nor Sunday (India weekend), so Monday and Tuesday and delivery Wednesday. Voilà. They don’t call me Genius for nothing (no I usually have to pay them first ). But now I was being told I would get my passport back today. Hang on a minute. They didn’t say I would get the visa, just that I would get back my passport. Worry, worry, worry. So much so that I couldn’t get back to sleep. And at 10 to 8 swung out of bed and into the shower. Six hours till delivery. Plenty of time to pop round to the office, dash into the supermarket and still be back with hours to spare. But first I can’t face the day without the obligatory poached eggs on toast; and coffee; and juice (not necessarily in that order) and then I check the eMails, and then find myself doing some research for the next article I’m writing; and before I know it half the morning has gone.

Ding dong. (I’ve never heard my front door bell before – only moved in to the apartment a month ago and no one has come round unexpectedly when I’m in before.) Good morning Sir. Your passport. (Hang on. It’s only 11.30. I wasn’t expecting you till 2. Ah well, no worries. I’m glad to have been in when you called.) Please sign here… and here…. And also here…. My signature becomes ever more illegible as writer’s cramp starts to set in. Thank you sir. Have a nice day. And you too, say I cheerily in the direction of a back that is receding fast towards the lift. I have been given a well-sealed see-through plastic bag. None of your cheap inferior quality plastic bags. No way. This would pass muster in a hospital, sealing some incurable virus from the outside world. Maybe they go to the same plastic bag supplier? Impossible just to rip it open. A pair of scissors is needed. I hack away, wondering what I will find inside.

And there, in my passport, affixed to the middle page of the passport (eschewing 15 empty pages before it and 13 empty pages after it) is my new Indian visa. Bliss. Relief. But what’s this? Not a two-visit visa as requested (and paid for). Not valid for six months as requested (and paid for). I had even told them I wanted to go back to India again in September. Nope. This is a multiple-entry visa valid for only three months. So I guess I will have to go through the entire process once again come the summer (I'll be older and wiser by then, of course!) But hey – I have my visa and I really am thankful for small mercies. So watch out Delhi…. here I come

Concerto for Nokia and Orchestra

Is There A Local Word For Culture?

I was talking to an Emirati the other day about what in his eyes made the United Arab Emirates so special. His eyes lit up as he prepared to indulge in what appeared to be one of his favourite monologues.

The UAE, he intoned, has only been in existence for 36 years – yet in that short space of time it has given rise to one of the highest per capita incomes in the world whilst at the same time is a melting pot for nationalities from right across the globe. “Here you will find freedom of expression and huge opportunities for everyone, which is why there is such a huge influx of people and why so many people are making large amounts of money.”

I forbore to tell him that the money was in the main being made by the locals on the back of the hard work of imported labour – mainly from south and south-east Asia – who were becoming more and more disillusioned with the way ever rising prices were diminishing what was once an attractive get-rich-quick proposition but that now meant that many an Indian or Pakistani worker could in fact be better off if he found a job back home.

But his clincher really got me thinking. “You could think of the UAE as a cultural meeting point and here you will find cultures from right across the world are all well represented and embraced.”

Now, this was an argument that took me totally by surprise. I have lived in the Middle East now for nearly ten years – the majority of it in Saudi Arabia, where the local cultures are there for all to see and experience. Love it or hate it – and I have to say I am personally very enamoured of the Saudi traditions – you cannot escape the ever present culture of a proud people.

But the UAE? Apart from a few short dances involving Emiratis throwing model rifles in the air and waving their canes about, whenever there is a grand opening or a national day celebration or whatever, I had never thought of the Emirates as being cultured in any way whatsoever.

“Look what is happening in Abu Dhabi,” he continued, warming to his theme. “There they are building a new Guggenheim museum, which will stand cheek by jowl with a new Louvre. Go to the Emirates Palace Hotel where there is currently an exhibition of the works of Picasso. Or look no further than Al Ain where every year they have an international music festival which is vying for a place on the international music festival circuit.”

I could hold back no more. I have visited the Picasso exhibition three times and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of Emiratis I have seen there.

And this year I actually did go to the Al Ain music festival, unlike the majority of Emiratis. For nine days there was a series of concerts held in a variety of venues such as the Al Jahili fort – superb backdrops for what could have been some memorable evenings. But no, in fairness they were memorable, though not as high class cultural events, unfortunately.

On one evening, for instance, they had the first performance in the Gulf of Mozart’s Don Giovanni sung in Arabic. Singers had been imported from Lebanon and Egypt and the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra flown in from Poland to perform in front of the local sheikh, together with anyone else who cared to drop in for a bit of culture.

True to local tradition, the sheikh arrived about 40 minutes late, everyone followed in to take their places and the concert began. The sheikh appeared to enjoy himself and laughed at the bit where Leporello sings about the “conquests” of his master which include 1,003 seductions in Spain alone. (Could this have ever happened in Saudi? Well apart from the fact that concerts are banned in the Kingdom, who would ever dare perform an opera about a womaniser bent on seducing every female he meets?) But if said sheikh can laugh at the naughty bits, then it must be OK – so everyone else joined in the muffled laughter so as to be in with the crowd. With plenty of Yalla Habibis and Leporello hardly able to keep his paws off  Donna Elvira’s tits (got a good guffaw from Al Sheikh!) a good time was had by all.
No one minded when Don Giovani (also referred to as Don Juan in a couple of places and even Al Don - now that’s more like it!) laddered his pop socks when his sword got caught up in his costume. When the Commendatore was killed, they used a red sash to represent the blood covering his white tunic (no, not a dishdash!). Very convincing, until the red sash slipped off the body, and the body had to come to life again just long enough to move it back onto his chest!

It wa a shame though that come the interval the sheikh suddenly remembered a pressing appointment elsewhere and as he hurried off, so did the majority of the audience leaving the performers singing to a half empty house.

Fast forward two evenings to the first performance of بيتر والذئب - Prokoviev's famous children’s masterpiece Peter and the Wolf sung in Arabic. Here the rich tones of a famous Arab actor were accompanied by a student orchestra from Italy. He had a beautiful voice and it was quite poetic to listen to - he even did the duck and bird voices a bit like a tom and jerry cartoon!
But as the evening wore on, and as the next work to be performed was Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, a cacophony of mobile phone calls almost drowned out the strains of the orchestra. Concerto for Nokias and Orchestra might have been a better title for Beethoven’s classic. Emiratis, it appears, (and it was almost entirely the Emiratis who were behaving in this way) are inseparable from their phones, even when it involves interrupting a public performance to the detriment of everyone else.

So my conclusion from albeit limited experience here in the UAE is that the local tradition of throwing money at something, purely to proclaim to the world how cultured the Emiratis are, fools no one. And the relative handful of expatriates who actually bother turning up to these events only underlines how uncultured the place actually is.

A place on the international music festival circuit? Hey. Pass me my mobile phone. Just don’t make me laugh!

Driving in the Gulf

Driving in the Middle East has always been an adventure for me. I had my first taste of it when working in Jeddah in 1999 for the processed food manufacturer Savola (I was employed to install an intranet for them and to get their internal communications sorted out.)

They gave me a beat-up old Honda Accord. It had blood stains all over the ceiling and, I subsequently learned, had been stretched out after being crumpled in a fatal accident. "You learn to cope with Jeddah traffic in this, and then we will see about getting you another car," they said. I soon discovered why. In a city where it is considered sissy to move down from 5th gear when approaching a roundabout there are plenty of accidents occurring on a daily basis. Riyadh's driving is only slightly better, but it appears the further east across the Gulf that you go, the better the driving. The UAE is a beacon of good driving compared to that of Saudi – though it apparently takes the prize for having the most driving related deaths per head of population.

There are of course, many pluses – such as the price of petrol. In Saudi Arabia a litre costs you around 9 pence – reduced from a heady 12 pence by King Abdullah when he first ascended the throne. Over in the Emirates it is much more expensive. They sell their petrol in gallons still, but the price works out around 22 pence per litre. Servicing, too isn't astronomical, given they employ third world workers who are paid a pittance for putting in long hours. And although they eschew organisations such as the Automobile Association, that doesn't cause much of a problem, given the fact that if you break down by the side of the road, there is invariably someone who will stop to offer their help in a very short time.

One day I had an urgent appointment in Riyadh right the other end of town. I jumped into the car, turned the key and .....; I said, I jumped into the car, turned the key and .....; I SAID I JUMPED INTO THE CAR, TURNED THE KEY AND .... absolutely nothing.

Oh bother, thought I (a loose translation, obviously!) The beastly battery had died on me. What rotten luck.... or words to that effect. So I took my computer back into the apartment, returned to the car, dug out the jump lead and waited for a friendly car to drive along the road.

Now, dear reader, you should understand that in order to give the car maximum shade I (and all the other residents) parked at the back of the building rather than on the 'main' road (ie the side that used to have loads of dead palm trees since they had planted them before someone else had had time to install the watering system. Only when two of them had fallen over were they then dug out leaving no trees at all.)

This occurred during Ramadhan and what this meant in practice was that very few cars drove along this street in the morning since the vast majority of the neighbourhood were fundamental muslims and – like most Saudis – this meant that they slept during the Ramadhan days and only came out of their homes when the sun went down - a bit like Dracula, if you think about it. (Dracula with a thobe and ghutra?)

So there I sat and waited ... and waited ... and finally an old Nissan Cedric (a Middle Eastern classic) vroom-vroomed its way along the road and I jumped out and flagged him down much to his surprise. (What is this strange man doing up and about out of bed, he must have asked himself.) Unfortunately he didn't speak a word of English, but mafi mushkillah, on my waving the jump leads and pointing to the open bonnet of my car and muttering mushkillah, mushkillah kabir at him, he quickly understood, revved his Cedric round to my disgraced Kia and within half a minute two vroom-vrooms signalled all was now well. Off he drove after I had firmly shaken his paw and muttered my undying thanks, and I left the engine running while I quickly dashed back inside to grab my computer ... and off I drove to my appointment. Of course, by the time I arrived, all the people I had wanted to see had disappeared off. So I pelted off to a tyre workshop in order to get a new battery.(Well, where else would you buy one?)

The extremely friendly mechanic, who had been dozing in an old arm chair that had found its way into the garage (I obviously woke him up) didn't speak a word of English, and had obviously also been brought up in the think-of-a-number-and-double-it school of sales. Kam? asked I. He reached for his calculator (as they always do - for show I think) and punched in 360. La la, my good man, quoth I. Surely a mistake. Didn't you mean 200? Ah. Perhaps his digit had slipped a notch. Perhaps I would be happy to pay 300? How about 250? How about 260? Done. Shakes paw and said mechanic wields a bunch of spanners, extricates the old battery and throws in a new one with a seasoned alacrity that would have taken me ten times as long to achieve. Goldie growled once more into life and off I drove on a totally deserted road back to the apartment.

In stark contrast I had to visit a tyre workshop as one of my tyres was deflating every few days. It turns out there was a small nail embedded which they found when they removed the tyre, patched the inside, refitted the tyre, balanced the wheel and put it all back together again - 25 minutes which they sheepishly charged me SR30 for (about £4). You were ripped off, a Saudi friend told me over the phone later on!

The following week I had to drive to Qatar. I left Riyadh at 5am and got to the border quite easily by 10. And then it was time to run the gauntlet of the Qatari immigration. Perfectly charming as always - but oooooooh so frustrating. Last time I paid the visa fee of QR105 and all went well. Now they had a new procedure. You have to purchase a Qatari government e-card which you charge up with Qatari riyals and then it is used to debit the visa fee. All well and good - except you pay QR20 (£3) for the privilege of getting a card and then find you can only charge up in QR100 or QR50 amounts. Well, you've guessed it - as I had to pay QR105 I therefore had to charge it with QR150. So I had to pay out QR170 for a QR105 fee. Of course I could use the card next time I went to Qatar… in theory - but as there was only QR45 left on it, I would have to put QR100 on it and then there is only QR40 left after that visit. So nine visits more and it will have been paid off! You cannot use it to pay for some of the charge and pay for the rest with a credit card or actual cash. So I have never used it since then and it still sits forlorn and forgotten in my credit card wallet.

Leaving Doha the next day was very difficult with traffic chaos brought on by the closure of one of the principle roundabouts in the city, and I chuntered my way to the border through wind-swirled white sand throwing itself at the car. The poor girl in the Qatari immigration desk was obviously a newbie. You from where? she asked me as she thumbed through my passport. From England I replied. Why your passport it say 'Untied Kingdom' not 'Ingerland'? (What do you reply to that?)

Eventually she got herself sorted out, stamped the passport and I made my way over to the Saudi side, only to find a herd of goats had invaded the border crossing. I was stopped. Turned back in my tracks. It appears I had left Qatar the day before I had entered the country. At least, the stamp in the passport professed to that. They suggested I go back to the Qatari side and negotiate a new exit.

The Qataris found this wildly amusing. Passed my passport back and forth to one another enjoying the joke immensely. But eventually as the joke started to wear a bit thin they stamped it once more with the correct date and I returned to the Saudi side where the immigration officer waved me through with a big smile on his face. Such charmers those Saudi border guards!

Actually, Saudi border guards were always friendly. Not like some of the other countries in the Gulf. Maybe for them it was a chance to try out their English on the very few Europeans who drove through. Comments such as You know David Beckham no? were routine. As were Where your drink? (They really think people are stupid enough to tell them?) Now, to even think of importing alcohol into the magic kingdom is not something to be recommended to the faint hearted. Severe penalties are meted out to those who try and fail. But many do try their luck, given that the black market price for a bottle of bad whisky would set you back around SR700 (£110). In the UAE you can get a bottle of good rum for Dhs10 (£1.60) so the temptations are ever present.

Most Saudi border guards know all about whisky. Most haven't a clue about gin. So a story that might be of interest for the foolhardy…. BS drives up to the Saudi border post and amongst the usual pleasantries is asked Where's your drink? He points to the bottle of water on the centre console. No Sir. Where is your drink. He opens his cool box and points to the bottles of water therein. No no sir. Where your whisky? Mafi whisky. Oh. Alright. Off you go. And BS goes off, calculating his potential profits as he drives through the Empty Quarter on the way back to Riyadh.

Mind you, the Saudis do get their own back in their own kind of way. I was driving along minding my own business one day and a cop car pulls me over for ... I'm not sure what. He spoke not a word of English, demanded my licence and my istimara (car registration documents) and the next thing I know he hands me a yellow piece of paper and drives off. Well I know enough to understand that it's an on-the-spot fine but what for I haven't a clue. I don't know how much for either. And I was worried that I would need to go to the traffic police (no one there on my previous occasions when I tried to get a licence transfer speaks any English either).

Well, the next evening I went over for iftar to a friend's place - she had made some samosas with spinach & meatballs dripping in lemon juice. Luckily her Saudi friend Sallem was there too and he was able to make out what my traffic violation was all about - apparently I drove down a street the wrong way! Well, as I drive that same route almost every day I find this hard to believe, but it's just another example here of having to grin and bear it. So the next thing I have to do is to find out how much the fine is for. Easy. You ring a number, punch in your iqama number and you are told by an electronic voice how much you owe. So I did and found I owed nothing.

Luckily, before getting too cocky, I remembered that the iqama number on my driving licence is different from the one on my iqama as I had got the licence when I was with a previous company, whilst my present Iqama is registered to my present one. So I rang quoting the old iqama number and sure enough I owed SR300 – about £45.

Now the problem here is that if you owe a fine, you are barred from leaving the country. And as I had to go to Abu Dhabi the following night this could have been a problem. So how to pay the fine? Easy. you go to an ATM machine. Err, nope. SABB ATMs (part of HSBC) don't have the facility. Nor do Saudi-Fransi ATMs. You have to bank with Riyad Bank or Al Rajhi for that privilege apparently. So I spent the afternoon ringing round to see if any of the people I knew had those accounts. Nope. Mushkillah kabir! So finally in desperation I texted my sponsor – and he was delighted! I think it made him feel less of a prat for crunching his Mercedes in heavy Ramadhan traffic the day before even though I protested my innocence! Anyway, he did have a Rajhi account and promised faithfully to pay the fine for me if I paid him back within 24 hours. Which is what happened!

The following morning I off at the crack of dawn once more for the Emirates. As I approached Al Kharj the sun was about to come up over the horizon behind the water tower – a spectacular sight – and as I got into the desert, a large red ball appeared. Even more spectacular. An hour later a cargo train chuffed chuffed its way along the track sending up clouds of sand in its wake,

and then a whole load of camels followed it as if to say ‘what about us’!

Once again at the border the Saudi guards were very polite (and again I was asked if I knew David Beckham!) but on the Emirati side manners were visible by their absence and general lack of helpfulness and friendliness (quite normal as I found on all my encounters with Al Gubaibah border crossing and at Dubai Airport). And then, the lllllllloooooooooooonnnnnnnggggggggggg drive along the one boring road for 450 kms to Dubai. Every kilometre looked just like the previous kilometre. Excellent road; awful journey

I stopped at loads of lay-byes and drank loads of pepsi (which I’m assured keeps you hyper and stops you falling asleep. Actually Red Bull is even better if you don't worry about what it does to your insides.) I used to go to and fro over to Dubai and Abu Dhabi on an almost weekly basis, and with my imminent move to the UAE, had been shepherding the contents of my apartment across the border to put it in storage until such time as I officially started my new job.

Sometimes it was plain sailing down to Al Kharj (100km south of Riyadh), and then the winds would start up in earnest and a massive sandstorm would start blowing which at times meant you simply couldn't see the road which merged with the sand dunes. On one occasion I drove past the last petrol station without being able to see it and didn't realise for another 15kms until the tank was getting dangerously low. Luckily my GPS helped me out and I returned rather than risk running out in such awful weather. When I opened the window to say hi to the poor petrol pump attendant the car got a load of sand dumped inside!

When I started work in the Emirates. I had to get a UAE driving licence pretty quickly. My Saudi licence wasn't good enough. Mohammed (company driver) took me to the driving centre near the Mall of the Emirates where first I had to have an eye test. First I had to pass over my passport and UK driving licence (they didn't want to know about my KSA one) so that it could be translated into arabic - kerching. Dhs30. Then the eye test itself. Kerching Dhs 55. Sit here please blurble blurble blurble - {covers one eye} Sorry, I didn't hear what you said quoth I. That's fine {covers other eye} I now realise he had wanted me to read out some letters on the other side of the room. Which line do you want me to read? quoth I again. That's fine. I have now been rated with excellent eye sight (6/6 for both eyes) and in addition apparently have passed the Ishihara colour blindness test with flying colours (ho ho - my joke!) as well as being an exceedingly fit specimen.

So I am whisked into a HUGE room, given a number and told to wait ... and wait ... and wait ... for 3 hours! I finally get called and hand over my paperwork - a BIG NOTICE proclaims I need four photographs, a company letter to say I need a licence, and a few other things besides. Oops. But Mafi mushkillah. Only two pix required, no company letter asked for, eye test and translated documents barely looked at and the operator copied all the important info into her computer from my passport. Kerching Dhs110. Go other room, I am told. Sit down. Look at camera. Thank you. Wait. Mr Brain. Here is. One driving licence. Al hamdullilah - I am finally legal and am now allowed to buy a car.

A few weeks later I had to laugh. I went out to meet an Indonesian friend of another Indonesian friend who had returned to Jakarta a few weeks previously. This one is from Bali and very sweet. Finding her in Abu Dhabi proved to be a problem. I'm near the junction of Al Falah Street and 10th Street she said. Easy! thought I. Al Falah is also known as 9th Street which crosses Al Salaam (8th Street) whilst 10 Street is the main road that runs past Abu Dhabi Mall. Hah! Wrong. She was nowhere to be seen. After a lot of phone calls she said she could see the Etisalat building from her place. Clang! It means she had to be near Airport Road, alias 2nd Street alias Sheikh Rashid Street. The problem is that (according to my GPS) there are 98 10th Streets in this city and of course, being new here she had no idea about this and certainly had no idea which one. I passed eight 10th streets before I finally found the right one and we had to agree to meet at a McDonalds which we both could locate. It turned out she was nearer New Airport Road, alias 4th Street alias Muroor Street rather than Airport Road alias 2nd Street alias Sheikh Rashid Street. I wondered which was better – a town with many street names duplicated or a town like Riyadh where many streets had no names whatsoever. I'm still working out the answer to that.

Middle East International Film Festival

I don't know what it is about celebrities that makes them so fascinating for us mere mortals, but I was lucky enough – if that's the right word – to be working at October's Middle East International Film Festival in Abu Dhabi where there were stars aplenty for us to hobnob with and to have our pictures taken with so we could send them off to our friends with a "guess who I was with last night" type of eMail.

But it got me thinking of how our expectations rarely seem to live up to reality. Take Antonio Banderas, for instance, who turned up with his wife Melanie Griffith on his arm. There was a long queue of females waiting for what must have been ages in the hot sunshine with their tongues virtually hanging out waiting for the sex bomb to arrive, only to put their tongues pretty fast back in when he did finally turn up (one and a half hours late), as it looked as if the swashbuckling Zorro had been bathing in olive oil. Yuk.

Jane Fonda was an unexpected surprise. I simply hadn't realised she is now 71 years old. There she was looking drop dead gorgeous – sexier than many women half her age. Sure, no photographs were allowed to be taken until her makeup artist had dabbed little blobs of paint here and there, and her silicon implants were doing their job admirably – perhaps a little too admirably for her advanced years, but she looked a million dollars, there was no denying. I asked her if, looking back at her starring role of Barbarella and given the feminist causes she now espouses, if she regretted having taken on the role. Was it because she was so young when she did it? What d'ya mean young, she asked. Well, everything is relative, said I – and later discovered the woman was 31 when she made the film with ex-husband Roger Vadim. No, there is no doubt the woman has always worn well.

Which unfortunately can't be said so much of my next interviewee – Susan Sarandon. Just like Ms Fonda, she was charming; and though she must have fielded every question available in her time, I think even she was taken aback by one question lobbed at her from an over enthusiastic Lebanese hack. “Ms Sarandon – yisterday we saw zer loverly Jane Fonda. She ees so old, yet she is beautiful. But you – you have a very wrinkly face and you are much younger than she. Are you happy viz de way you look?” Sharp intake of breath from all present and you could have heard the proverbial pin drop! Well, she smiled graciously and made some answer about beauty starting from within, which relieved the tension in the air whilst the minders hurried the journalist out of the way as quickly as they could.  To lessen it further, I asked her if instead of living in New York as she does, whether if she had lived in Hollywood she would have ended up as a California babe with a permanent smile stitched into her scalp. That certainly gave her food for thought!

Next on my list of celebs was Carole Bouquet. Who? I hear you asking? You mean you don't recognise the ex-face of Chanel? Or even the Bond girl from For Your Eyes Only? OK, well I have to admit I didn't either, and as she had just come in from a swim in the Arabian Gulf, and had no make up on, she banned all the photographers with an imperial wave of her hand.

Meg Ryan looked lovely on the red carpet, but obviously jet lag had set in such that she appeared to forget what her speech was about and even had to remind herself with a quick glance at her script which town she was in! Catherine Deneuve was worthy; whilst a bevy of Egyptian and Lebanese actresses had male hearts all a-flutter throughout the festival.

But the thing that really got me was the amount of toadies and hangers-on that were to be seen everywhere, together with the name-droppers who bored the pants off you with whom they had just met. I mean how shallow is that? As if anyone could possibly care whom you have been seen with! Don't you just hate people like that?
By the way did I tell you about my brush with Jessica Alba?.....