Should we pass around the begging bowl for Géant?

Readers of these pages will know that I get fed up with the perpetual ethos in the Gulf region of ripping people off at every conceivable opportunity. Not that it is just in this region, of course. My most lasting impression of Delhi will always be the way the entire population appears to target foreigners as rip off victims and inflate their prices accordingly, sometimes by many hundreds of percent.
But whereas in Delhi it is done quite openly – you know that if you are a foreigner the prices are actually posted up showing how much you are ripped off (!) – here in the UAE, stealth rip off is more the norm.

Now, maybe it’s because it is the holy month of Ramadhan, which – we are led to believe - is especially a month of generosity and giving – that the continuing antics at hypermarket giant Géant are rubbing me up the wrong way. The religious web sites would have us believe that during Ramadhan, charity and generosity toward fellow humans are akin to prayer.

 رمضان كريم – Ramadhan Kareem, scream the posters from all over the store, as if somehow to get us into the mood and improve our joie de vivre.

Many of the products have special Ramadhan labels affixed – such as a special offer pack of three litres of Nada juice for a mere 10 dirhams. Oh what a bargain. They know how to tempt the cheapos like me into parting with our cash.

I check again. Yes. Sure enough. On the shelf itself is a pricing ticket confirming this bargain of the century.

How can I resist? Answer: I can’t. I grab a three-pack… fighting back the urge to take two or three to tide me over… and head off for the tills.

The Filipina checkout girl, well trained in the art of tempting cash from the hapless customers, asks if I would like a plastic bag. She doesn’t tell you that it will automatically add 25 fils to the overall price of your checkout trolley; but we’re all wise to that one by now. But wait – what is this? A large sign below the counter telling us to Say No to Plastic Bags.

I tell her that it would be churlish to accept a plastic bag when the store begs us not to. Filipina is not amused. Perhaps she has heard it too many times before.

She swipes my precious pack of Nada juice… Dhs10.50 please.

Errr, no. I think you mean 10.00.

No, it has come up as 10.50.

But it even says 10.00 on the pack.

Sorry. It’s 10.50

I start to explain to her that such a practice is actually illegal in Europe, but she doesn’t want to know.

Eventually a store manager comes over to see why the checkout queue is growing at such an alarming rate. This just isn’t right I explain to him patiently.

I agree with you, he replies. I will get a merchandiser to check it out straight away. (He has obviously been trained in the art of keeping the customer happy) and instructs the Filipina to charge me 10.00.

Two days later, having savoured the delicate taste of Nada Raspberry and Orange juices, I decide that I can hold back my desires no longer and hurry back to Géant for another pandering to my inbuilt gluttony. Yes, sure enough the offer is still there. I check the bottles. I check the pricing ticket.

I grab a 3-pack and head for the checkout once more.

Would you like a plastic bag sir?

Not today thank you.

Ok sir. That is 10.50 dirhams.

Oh no it’s not! It is 10.00

No sir. 10.50.

I point out once again that this is a mark up of five per cent on the published price, but again to no avail.

I tell her she can keep her Nada juice and storm out of the shop.

Well, storm is maybe not the right word; for this little game I play is a regular occurrence at the Géant store. This charade probably happens to me at least once a month – you get to the check out and find that the price posted bears no resemblance to the price they charge you.

I wonder how many other people check their till receipts at Géant?

But wait…. generosity and giving are the hallmarks of Ramadhan. Perhaps Géant is going through lean times itself? Maybe it is our charity and generosity that is missing?

Hmmm… I hadn’t thought of that.

The Joys of Saudi Television

Saudi Arabia has changed a lot in recent years. I remember it was only in 2005 that there was an article in the papers about a man from Qassim who came home to find his wife watching TV. He filed for divorce on the basis that she had been able to see men on TV! Yes, really. The court had to explain to him that under Shariah law seeing a man on TV does not amount to infidelity! (Mind you, having coffee in Starbucks with someone you're not married to, does according to the laws of khulwa.)

I also remember watching a cookery programme on Saudi TV – a series in which the female chef was totally veiled and also wore black gloves (so she probably came from Qassim). It was so weird seeing a black blob hopping around the kitchen! The stove was absolutely filthy - probably afraid of getting her gloves dirty! Just the look of her cookery made you think you'd go down with chronic food poisoning!

Never did I think in those heady days that I would end up as one of KSA2's main English language news anchors. I was driving on the way back from Dubai to Riyadh – a 1000km journey - right in the middle of the Empty Quarter when my mobile phone went (the Saudis believe in being able to use their mobiles anywhere in the Kingdom, even if it is over 200kms to the next settlement). "Bonjour. C'est Monsieur Breeaaaaan Sawlteeer n'est-ce pas?" Well, luckily my schoolboy French came in dead useful and I was able to strike up a happy conversation with this guy who, it turned out, was responsible for making up the rotas on the English language TV station, even though he had learned French rather than English when at school.

It turned out that there were plans for KSA2 to go global, using satellites to beam their must-watch programmes into homes in Europe, America and Australia and someone had woken up to the fact that KSA2's news readers weren't up to much, certainly not on a par with other international broadcasters.

I was the Breeaaaaan Sawlteeer who used to broadcast on the BBC World Service yes? Yes I was. And you have trained announcers yes? Yes said I, forgetting to explain that they had been radio announcers, not TV. Good. Please come to our studios tomorrow morning.

So the next day at the allotted hour I blagged my way through the security apparatus and ended up in an office overlooking the TV Tower which dominated the old town.

Show me what your announcers are given to read, I requested and on doing so was in no way surprised that they made such a dog's dinner of the evening news. I spent the next three months training the newsroom on the rudiments of writing a news bulletin, and then started off training the announcers. It wasn't long after that that the inevitable request came for me to put in an appearance in front of the cameras.

Most of the equipment looked like stuff that had been discarded from the BBC over 20 years previously. (Not far out in my assumptions I later learned.)

Worst was the autocue pedal which regularly broke down while on air such that the words rushed up off the screen, or even started rolling backwards. Some of the newsroom staff insisted On TYPING EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS which meant that many of the stories about American forces were a constant battle when trying to work out whether US meant 'us' or 'U.S.' and even to this day, if you want a good lesson in how NOT to read the news then tune in to KSA2.

I well remember one bulletin when the guy on the control desk was being let loose for the very first time. The 11pm news went OK and I think that’s when he started to get cocky. For the 1am bulletin – a 20 minuter – he missed the out cue of one of the VT inserts and let it play on…and on…and on until unceremoniously chopping it in mid flow. By then all the “timings” were well out. I then introduced a VT from Turkey. Nothing. Just my pretty face on screen.

“Go on” the editor said in my earphone. So I went on to the next story. Wrong! I was chopped mid sentence and the VT is played in. OK. I pick up at the start of the next story again and carry on. 15 mins later as all the timings are well out I get the message over the earphone “Cut all remaining stories.” So I drop the last three and lead in to the headlines.

“That’s all we have time for now, ladies and gentlemen. So to end the news let’s take another look at our top stories …..” and I sit…and wait … and look pretty… and continue to look pretty … and continue to continue to look pretty … and it dawns on me that the guy outside in the control room has no idea what is happening. The editor is obviously not up to much either (I found out later that he had given instructions to the rookie and then walked out of the studio leaving him to fend for himself.) And believe me it’s very lonely sitting on camera smiling at an unseen audience with nothing to say, having no idea what is going on and knowing the world is wondering also what is going on!

Eventually after 17 seconds – a lifetime – the headlines are faded in and I can continue to the end of the bulletin. The rookie is mortified and turns to face away from me when I exit the studio. The sound man has a good snigger and the VT guy has already disappeared. I smile and wave a hearty shukran as I walk out and go back upstairs to the newsroom which is deserted except for one of the editors who hasn’t even watched the bulletin as he is busy on MSN Messenger to a girlfriend on the other side of the world.

The next morning I went over to the TV station where, I was told, there was money waiting for me! This is the big moment I had been waiting for for over seven months. To actually get paid! Wow! Saudis, I should explain, hate parting with money, whether it is their own or somebody else's.

Now they have this system whereby you have to search for your name on hundreds of sheets of paper and find a number scribbled next to it. You then go to the cash office in the next corridor, quote the number and ask for your pay. So easy … you’d think.

Mustafa has given me a scruffy piece of paper (given its size, I think he was saving trees) with seven numbers scribbled on it. 867, 395, 410, 310, 775, 543, 109. And I was given instructions to go to the cash office where there would be a pile of money waiting for me. So I went along to the cash office where a scruffy bedou gabbled away in Arabic and shooed me away. What to do?

I went upstairs to the newsroom where the female (morning shift) editors were packing up. One of them offered to accompany me and translate. We went to the cash office. Wrong cash office! They had decided during Ramadhan that TV staff should get paid from a special TV cash office whilst radio and Information Ministry personnel could still get paid from the old cash office. We eventually find the new office back in the TV building.

The cashier bursts out laughing. “You’re not a woman!” he says pointing at me. You’re quite right, I reply. (What else would I have said?) “But now you go to the women’s cash office?” Turns out that someone “upstairs” has decided that keeping me waiting for seven months for my pay is a bit OTT and I should be fast tracked … and the only way to fast track someone is to enter them as a woman as they get paid quicker than men (don’t ask me why!). So I have been made a temporary woman!

I go with Tabasum to the female cash office. Ooops – there is a muttawah [religious police] raid on right at this minute so obviously I can’t go into the cash office. Tabasum goes in instead and comes out five minutes later to tell me that all of these numbers have already been paid out. Obviously the westerner is trying his luck trying to cheat the system but as the cash has been signed for (very sorry, we can’t read the signature!) I must leave empty handed.

Hoards of muttawah (oh, OK, three, but it still feels a lot) shout to Tabasum to cover her face and she turns away pretending not to understand what they are screaming. She takes me to see Mustapha, the newsroom fixer. He takes me to see Khalid, the cash office fixer. He bashes away at his computer and I am returned to male status once more. I am given a new number. Will this get me some money? Oh no. Maybe next week inshallah.

He bashes away on the computer again. Another number is produced. You take this to information ministry cash office and they give you money. Ahh. That’s better. I walk over to the Ministry building. “La la. Mafi hinah!” Back to Khalid. “Did I say Ministry? La la. I meant TV cash”. Back to TV cash office. “You’re not a woman then?” He opens a huge drawer stuffed full of wads of notes and lifts one out. This for you, he says. (A good feeling). And I am now led to believe that the other number that Khalid has given me will reward me with great riches next week (inshallah) – in fact possibly seven months’ worth of riches.

A few days later it was the visit of King Abdullah to the UK. I was on shift when he had his state banquet with Liz & Phil-the-Greek and because it was all happening right up until transmission, my long bulletin at 1am didn’t get the autocue script until seconds before going on air – in fact I was convinced I would have to read the whole thing off paper – but in the end up it came and I ploughed straight on in…with such gems as “the relationship between the Kingdom and the Queendom is..” (I was able to sidestep that little one!) and another: since the historic meeting between HM King Abdulaziz ibn Saud and Sirchil in 1945”. Sirchil? 1945? Ah. Easy (but they don’t ‘alf make it difficult when you’re least expecting it!)

Another time I had arrived back in Riyadh again, at a time the OPEC heads of state summit was disrupting traffic and the lives of the populace. The next day, I got home, made myself a lovely plate of mince and onions with macaroni and was just about to sink my gnashers in when the phone went. Saudi TV. “Hello Mr Brain. Keif Halik?” (oh oh they want something!) “Are you in Riyadh?” (they definitely want something) “Would you be available this evening at short notice?” OK. It’s a fair cop. Do they want me to read the 9pm or the 11pm news? It appears that one of their announcers who was due in at 9.30 is now not able to make it. Could I cover for him? (Ah. So it’s the 11pm.) Sure. No problems, say I feeling expansive. Is it both the 11pm and 1am or just the 11pm?

“La, La, you don’t understand, He was going to cover the OPEC summit. Now you can do it yes?” Er, what exactly do you mean “do it”? Do what?

“Oh you just have to introduce the programme, interview the guests, give some background about OPEC. That kind of thing. Mafi mushkillah. We know you can do it”.

Now just a moment there. You want me to present this evening’s analysis programme on OPEC? Yes that’s right. And when does it go out? 9.30pm (it’s now 6.30 pm). But I don’t know anything about this OPEC summit. I have been too busy to see the news today or yesterday. Mafi mushkillah we have a researcher for you. How long is the programme? Only 1 ½ hours! What !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well against my better judgement I finally agreed and got changed into my glad rags. Pink shirt with a pink spotted blue tie. And though I say it myself I felt quite dapper. (In fact it was even commented on in the studio. “Not everyone could wear that and get away with it!” I was told.)

I managed to drive like a maniac and got to the studios by 7.30. Can I see what your researcher has got together for me? Answer: one page of the Saudi news bulletin. And this has got to fill 1 ½ hours????????? Are you mad? Ah we know you can do it Mr Brain.

I need to do my own research. I’m off to the news room. Oh sorry Mr Brain. The internet is down. But inshallah it will be back up again soon. What????????

So who am I interviewing? We have three guests for you. Yes, but who? They will be good guests. Yes, but who? Inshallah we will find out shortly (it’s now 9.10 and no sign of any guests.)

So I have the prospect of going on air in 20 minutes with no background to the summit and no idea whom I’m interviewing. Mafi mushkillah. We will tell you of course when we know. Don’t you know? Don’t worry Mr Brain. All will happen. Please to go in the studio.

I’m shepherded into the studio. 9.25. No guests. 9.28 no guests. We are told they have left the hotel. Inshallah they will be here soon. Just introduce the programme and we will bring them in when they arrive. Hey! No way! (I know what inshallah means in this place!)

9.30 comes and goes. At 9.40 an American Egyptian walks in. Do you know what is going on? he asks me? Nope. Nor do I. At 9.47 a Lebanese woman walks in. Do you know what is going on she asks us both? Nope. At 9.50 we are on the air. (Hey, what happened to interviewee no 3? He’s sitting in Cairo, I’m told with 10 seconds to go. No idea what his subject of expertise is. Come to that, I haven’t much idea what the other two can talk about either. But now we’re live!

Asalaam aleikum and welcome to a special programme yadda yadda yadda … say I and we’re off. Turns out we also have an ex Oil Minister of Kuwait on the line (kept waiting for 45 minutes as no one tells me he is there) plus there are three inserts from the Saudi Foreign minister and some vox pops etc.

And amazingly it all seemed to go OK. I dug right down into the depths of my memory and regurgitated Sheikh Yamani and the 1973 oil crisis (it helped that I had made a programme on this very subject some 30 years previously!); and remembered the book I’d read on the fall of the Shah in 1979 and was able to B_S my way through the programme. And before I knew it, 70 minutes had passed and I was wrapping up.

The interviewees said how impressed they were, and how well they thought it had gone. The producer who had avoided me at the start (wonder why!) came in to bask in reflected glory. And the biggest compliment came from the female interviewee. Not only was she managing editor of a business magazine in Beirut, but also of an events company in Bahrain. Would I be interested in chairing an international conference for them in the near future? She would eMail me with the details. (She never did.)

Ahhh. Saudi Television. Eat your hearts out BBC/CNN/Fox etc

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.