Dubai - the Desert City

Morning had broken according to the exclaiming cockerel next door so I got out of bed, eager to see what the days' breakfast would bring. Downstairs, I was surprised to see an Australian couple who had arrived late the night before. They were very nice and we chatted about their trip to Europe and my forthcoming trip to Southeast Asia. It always amuses me how non-Europeans talk about Europe. Like it's a single entity where all one has to do is see London, Paris and Rome to be able to say "yes, we did Europe last summer, it was wonderful, so quaint."

Today, being my last breakfast at the Villa, I had decided to make the most of it. I started with the yoghurt then a full bowl of fresh pineapple, to my delight. Ancy brought out the Indian component - it was an Indian stew. It looked like a pureed, diluted version of rice pudding. The translucent white soup was given life with the addition of bright green, orange and red vegetables and chillies. The accompaniment today was, again, a type of pancake but made from fermented rice flour and used to soak up the tasty liquor. Keen not to make the same mistake again, I accepted a second bowl of stew and the numerous rice pancakes that seemed to endlessly roll fresh out of the kitchen.

Ancy had again called me a taxi and I had it take me to the museum again. Upon arrival, I walked the short distance to the old town region of Bastakia, which I had mostly missed the day before. The area is the oldest in Dubai and has been recently renovated looking almost pristine, possibly a little too so. The closely placed buildings formed a network of narrow alleys ripe for exploration with small shops, cafes, galleries and other tourist centred attractions. It was still quite early and I scurried along the allies and passages in glee being the only one around. The high wind towers, a very early form of air conditioning for the buildings which possessed them, were really quite attractive featuring multiple panels of carved latticework presumably used as fancy air bricks. They were built many decades ago by well-to-do traders. For unknown reasons, there were wooden poles and exposed beams which made for handy places to hang lanterns and awnings. It felt like a real treat to be able to wonder around with just the odd shopkeeper to say "hello" to. Apart from the lack of Arabs (they were in the adjacent Mosque) and, perhaps, the slight 'just finished' feel to the buildings, the place felt like a step back in time and was truly atmospheric. The small accumulations of sand in the corners of buildings were a constant reminder that I was in the desert.

From there, I walked up the Dubai Creek, through the bustling streets and into the real working Dubai. Passed multiple mosques with their elegantly towering minarets, I was jostled as I squeezed between carts and street vendors while others presumably rushed to work, though, for many, I was already walking through their 'office'. Wooden roofs covered tiny shop-lined alleys full of Arabic men bartering in their painfully clean traditional dress. Adjacent to the souk, was a main abra stop. Abras are essentially water taxis that ply the route between major points on either side of the river offering a faster way to travel despite being decades old. It was worth the trip just for the experience and cost less than twenty pence. The long thin abras, with a tiny roof for shade weren't built for comfort, more for speed and agility. Many abras clogged the few rickety jetties but owners took it in turns to accept passengers although they didn't have to wait long as they had plenty of punters. I was accosted by a man wanting to help so I told him I was heading for the spice souk. He immediately ushered my onto a rapidly filling abra where I hopped aboard, found a spot to perch on and we were off, quite literally barging other abras out of the way. I hadn't seen any other white people on an abra nor had I seen any women. We darted out into the main waterway, dodging heavily laden dhows en route, who would have thought a three minute ride across the creek would be so thrilling. Once we had a short stretch of clear water the driver, in a trench in the middle of the boat and stood on the hull itself, starting banging on the deck. This, a fellow passenger explained, meant we had to pay and people starting hurling the 1 dirham coins at him in acknowledgment - no ticket here then.

Upon landing on the Deira side of the saltwater creek, I headed straight for the popular spice souk. I could smell the exotic aromas wafting towards me as I approached. Bloated hessian sacks were carefully filled with various vibrant spices like paprika and turmeric; it was certainly a surprise for the senses. Inside, the shops had horizontal wooden pigeonholes filled with yet more spices, herbs and dried fruit. Delicate brass scales sat swaying on the counter and the walls were filled, floor to ceiling, with various culinary goods. Sticks of cinnamon, vanilla pods and piles of saffron, the colour of molten lava, beamed from their wooden containers. Had this been at the end of my trip, I would certainly have bought various samples to take home as these luxury items were everyday essentials in Dubai and priced accordingly.

Leaving the spice souk and brushing off a persistent but friendly salesman in the process, I walked along the waterfront to another of the attractions I had a free ticket to. It was the modestly sized old residence of a former ruler although it wasn't nearly as grand as I would have expected. The sun was beating down and the temperature was around fifty degrees so I didn't spend much time in the central courtyard. Instead, I took refuge in the many rooms that came off it that were filled with past currencies, stamps and, more interestingly, old photos. They depicted the life and workings of the original Dubai when the area around the creek was still the most central and most important to the city and the emirate. As late as the 1980s, Dubai was still very primitive and more akin to the lost desert cities one sees in films with desert all around, no roads and certainly no skyscrapers. It looked as if the buildings had somehow been pushed out of the sand and were at great risk from the closely lapping waters of the creek whose lateral borders were beach, not the elevated frontage it sports now. The citizens waded through pools to see neighbours, and the boats, with their tattered sails, were far less numerous. What difference oil can make!

The miniature wooden double doors, reinforced with large, black, irregularly round rivets and long sturdy yet decorative hinges, lead into thick-walled whitewashed rooms. The doors required serious ducking and were just that bit too narrow to get into through one side, especially with a bag like mine strapped to your back, so both doors needed opening. Even smaller, with the top door frame coming to just below my nipples, was the door into one of the wind towers and up onto the roof. I felt like Alice must have felt as she blindly followed that unpunctual rabbit into a hole leading anywhere and everywhere.

I couldn't stand up as I climbed the dim staircase, so I resorted to the gait of an ungulate with my tripod clipping the ceiling. On the roof itself, the power of the wind tower was apparent and the breeze refreshing. The view over the creek and Deira was given a soundtrack of many chanting men from the nearby mosque during one of their five daily prayer sessions. I caught the bus to the Wafi Mall to get pictorial evidence of the Egyptian hideousness and to catch a convenient taxi back to the villa where I would go on to experience the medium that gave rise to Dubai - the desert.

I showered and changed ready for the desert safari and waited downstairs for the "luxury 4x4 vehicle". It eventually pulled up and I, being alone, got to sit in the front seat. We drove for about forty five minutes through the hustle and bustle of Dubai and along the motorway into the desert. After which we stopped at a very mediocre service station that was filled with tacky tourist trinkets, obviously tailored to its clientele. The 'car park' was packed with four wheel drive vehicles all releasing some air from their tyres in preparation for the soft dunes while the passengers, myself not included, stocked up on water and ice creams. Meanwhile, I'd prized my camera out of my bag and had legged it down the road, over a cattle grid, through a barbwire fence and into the desert for some sneaky snaps before we set off. I managed to fit in about forty photos before I ran back, just in time for our departure into the desert proper.

Pulling off the asphalt, over the hard shoulder, through a gap in a poorly made wire fence and straight onto the sand, we stopped momentarily to release a little excess gas, from the tyres not from lunch. We were off, hurtling across the sand at speed, up and over the colossal dunes before sharply turning at the ridge to allow the vehicle to 'surf' across the dunes with sand swirling all around us. It was like a natural rollercoaster and just as exciting, although from the sounds of things the Grecians in the back hadn't been on one before. It was fantastic fun, as was occasionally seeing another vehicle perform the same stunts daring stunts while we shot passed.

We stopped after forty five minutes as we came across a vehicle with a puncture. We all got out, the bonnet was lifted so as to prevent overheating and we were given ten minutes to absorb the desert, or that's what I chose to do. Previously, this kind of sand-filled desert, where the titanic dunes were the skyscrapers, was a thing of awe seen only on nature programmes where nothing but the obscure and ancient could survive. Last year I wondered at the Australian desert, the outback, and my first real taste of the desert, and I was blown away with its sheer scale and presence. This was both the same and something entirely different. To me, this was the real desert.

I stood, stunned and amazed, at its vastness and beauty feeling a great deal of respect for the many that have conquered it and for the desert itself. It must have even taken Ray Mears a considerable amount of time to work out how to survive in such barren and arid conditions. The sand and its various abstract lines were so crisp with any imperfection quickly blown over by the wind providing an infinitely changing landscape that one could only admire. It wasn't just the vista that was infinite for the desert seemed to go on forever with no sign of civilization anywhere, not even a shack or a tree interrupting the amber glow of the sands. Ripples, micro-dunes if you will, were created by the breeze and covered some surfaces of the real dunes until a peak was reached. A gently meandering line, the ridge of the dune, was where thousands of particles of sand were shot over the edge which provided fluidity to an otherwise seemingly static environment.

I clambered up, ruining its perfection, to feel the grains exfoliate my skin then the burn from the heat of the sand on the sun drenched side of the dune. There was no more time for exploration as the wheel had been changed, and more adrenaline-fuelled fun ensued. We headed over to a rocky hill that provided a more permanent and sharp incline to the dunes. Here we stopped again, this time to try our hand, or foot, at sand boarding. I was first and managed to have a couple of spectacular crashes but they just added to the fun, even if I ended up wishing I hadn't put any sun cream on. I was fairly pleased with my performance as it was as difficult as I had anticipated but lots of entertainment for everyone involved.

We arrived at a traditional Bedouin tribe camp, with three camels waiting patiently outside, where we were to spend the rest of the evening. There were large tents made from dark heavy cloth that formed the perimeter of the camp with a large area in the middle for people to sit. Here, we were invited to rest while we waited for dinner to be cooked, which included traditional barbequed kebabs that smelled delicious. The smell of food was antagonised with the sweet, pungent fumes from the Shisha pipes which I wasn't interested in trying. Others dressed up in traditional clothes for photos but I and a Canadian family went for camel rides around the camp.

As we waited for the previous guests to dismount, it was clear to see that the camels didn't enjoy their work. It took lots of shouting and whipping to get them to comply with simple commands. The reason for the muzzle became apparent when the disgruntled camels tried to bite the handler. I wasn't worried though as it did have the muzzle on and I hadn't done anything to it, yet, so why would it go for me? It really didn't occur to me that it might fancy a shot at me so it came as a shock when it had a good chomp on my right arm as soon as I came into range of its long curved neck. This resulted in an impressive bruise several days later. We were thrust backwards then forwards as the camel reluctantly stood up. It was a choppy ride around the camp, even at slow speed, and quite different to that of a horse. I managed to hang on as the quadruped sat down and, on leaving its personal space, gave it a wide berth.

I returned to the central rugged area where many low tables were arranged for people to sit cross-legged on large cushions as I did on the dhow cruise. The food was soon ready and I raced to the queue to get my first meal since breakfast. There was quite a range, from flat breads and hummus to curries and kebabs, and I, of course, tried everything. The tables were arranged around a dancing area where, after a second helping, we were entertained with traditional belly dancing. It was quite entertaining to watch, especially when guests were invited to join her which they did with a surprising lack of hesitation and resulted in a very pleasant evening.

The drive home entailed another hairy drive through the desert, this time moonlit, and then back onto the service station for re-inflation. I was back at the villa before midnight and felt a little guilty as I was last to be picked up and first to be dropped off. I then washed what looked like several kilos of sand from my body before getting into bed ready for an early rise the next morning.

Ancy had very kingly offered to drive me to the airport where I said farewell and thanked her for the delicious food. I left Dubai feeling enriched that I'd experienced another, very different culture and surprised myself with a sense that I would, in a few years time, like to return with the intention of seeing the capital, Abu Dhabi, which is said to be the cultural centre of the UAE. I was expecting to hate the city and it to be devoid of any culture, stifled, in my eyes, by its embrace of the modern world. I also expected to spend a fortune while I was there having heard numerous reports of it being very expensive but this never happened and I found that I spend very little, although the villa wasn't overly cheap. This, then, further enhanced the idea that Dubai really is what one makes of it, a diverse city that can be many things to many people. One that I would certainly recommend friends to visit - just go in the winter when the temperatures are tolerable!

I checked into my Emirates flight then made my way to duty free where I bought some whiskey for Mr Lim, as a thank you, and also a spare battery for my camera with some of the leftover money I had, the rest I changed into Ringgit. I got a drink from the ubiquitous Starbucks and took a seat to utilise the FREE Wi-Fi while I waited for gate 23 to open.

Onboard the plane, I was sat right at the front which meant I had more leg room but with a reduced view and a very young baby next to me. I was expecting this to cause problems for me throughout the flight but it never did, even with the bassinet protruding into my space and was kindly thanked on my exit from the plane by the staff for my understanding. I chatted to a Malaysian girl who was sat next to me during the flight, she was studying medicine in Moscow. Enjoying a little quiet time, I wrote and sipped on another gin and tonic as I headed to country number two.

'Ah, the pleasures of flying.'