The perils of mosaics

**********************

In an effort to meet new people, and become
the toast of social circles about town, I decided
to sign up for a mosaics course a few weeks ago.
Deep down I had always wanted to take a stab
at mosaics. So to speak.

Little did I know about the perils involved in taking
up this ancient craft! Our teacher assured us that
we would walk away with a completed project at
the end of two weeks. (Or die trying, I now think).
It was quite simply, the blitzkrieg of mosaics courses.

A week and a half into my course, I seemed to
be the only one in the class of four, that had managed
to slice open their fingers at each of the three-hour sessions.
I had even started carrying around spare bandaids in my
handbag for any unfortunate incidents involving
a tile cutter and a mosaic tile.

Since our time was very limited we were encouraged
to take our projects home and complete them.
So, being the diligent student that I am, I sat in the
living room on the couch, cutting mosaics tiles into
the small hours of Sunday night.

It was on Monday night however, that tragedy struck.
I had done so much the previous night, that I felt I
could just sit back and relax a bit. So it was as I was
sauntering towards the couch to flop down and watch
a DVD, that I felt a stabbing pain in the sole of my left foot.
I had unsuspectingly stepped into one of the pieces
of tile that was lying on the floor from the previous night.

I sat down to inspect the damage and there it was.
A piece of tile had lodged about half a centimetre into
my heel. So of course I had to be brave and pull it out,
at which point blood started gushing from the
gaping wound.

(Ok, so I might be using a bit of artistic license to
recreate this dramatic scene for you).

I hopped to the bathroom on my good leg, leaving a
trail of blood as I went. Half an hour later I had
managed to stem the bleeding and had stuck multiple
bandaids over the throbbing wound. I just hoped
that I would not end up contracting gangrene.
My hopes for being the toast of the social circles of
Dubai would be dashed.

As I was mopping up the bloody trail of destruction
caused by the mosaic tile, I came to the inevitable
conclusion, that perhaps I should really quit while
I'm ahead.
Meaning, quite literally before I decapitate myself,
or at the very least before I lose a few of my digits.

I'm now thinking of taking up Arabic lessons next.
I figure that at the very least I'll come away from there
with a few papercuts, or at the very worst with
some verbal abuse.

The Mystery of the Plastic Seat Covers
PART 1

**************************************

Here's a question.

Why on earth would one cover one's
expensive leather car seats in
what I can only describe as
giant clear plastic bags?

I would be talking about one's luxury
Dhs 100 000 - 500 000 car here.

I am perplexed.

This matter is under investigation,
with pictures to follow soon.

Forging ahead

**************

I've always considered myself to be a fairly honest
and decent person. That is perhaps until I came to
the Middle East.

It all started with planning a trip to Kuwait to visit
my good friend, Dave who lives there. Kuwait had recently
changed their visa laws, so that anyone in possession of
a valid GCC country residency visa (this includes the UAE),
would receive a visa upon entry into their country.
This does not count if you carry a South African passport,
it seems. In addition to your valid GCC residency visa,
South Africans must also provide proof of their
academic qualifications. It is notoriously difficult
to travel with one of these dark green passports.
I can count the countries we don’t need a visa
for on my two hands.

It is against this backdrop that my entry into the shady
world of forgery and smuggling illegal meat substances
into a Muslim country are set. To exonerate myself,
I would like to say that I did indeed study and obtain
my academic qualification over a three-year period.
I am also still a strict vegetarian.

As someone who has travelled extensively for a few years,
I naturally, did not have the slightest idea where
my original degree certificate was. I set about utilising
my aforesaid legally obtained, by-the-sweat-of-my-brow,
graphic skills, and created a document which as closely
as possible resembled my degree. I also came up with
a story to match why it seemed a bit pixelated.
'It had to be emailed to me, post-haste as an jpeg
attachment from South Africa'.

On Thursday night, I finally set out for the airport.
I then proceeded to charm and cajole my way onto the flight.
Various phone calls were made to and from Kuwait by a
very helpful Emirati man, pixelated certificate in hand.
Still, this took up the best part of an hour.

My flight was already flashing an urgent red,
'gate closing, final call', by the time I finally got
through passport control.

I was growing more nervous by the minute. And then,
I hit the fourth and final carry-on luggage check.
Once again, I had to put all my bags and appendages
through the x-ray machine, except that the painting
I was carrying to Kuwait for Dave would not fit through
the x-ray! Why was this machine suddenly smaller?
So I was pulled out of line, and the stony-faced airport
security officials would not let me through.

'What's inside box?' they demanded.
It's a painting, in a frame with glass, I answered.
'No! No glass, you can't take on plane.
Must take back outside, or leave here, and lose it!'
I was growing a bit hysterical at this point,
trying to reason that there was no way that
I could go back outside, through passport control,
check-in and various bag-and-body-scanning procedures
to leave the painting with someone, on the 'outside'.

I started to gesture wildly and make clear that I
would miss my flight! The three Arabic men started
to back away from the hysterical red-haired woman,
who was clearly intent on making their Thursday night,
a difficult one. In the meantime, the dead pig was
sweating silently, but determinedly in my carry-on luggage.

In a flash of what I thought was a theatrically
impressive performance, I suddenly seized the box and
started tearing off the tape with my hands.
This display was possibly made even more ridiculous
by the fact that the confiscated sharp objects box,
containing roughly about 200 pairs of scissors in assorted sizes,
was less than half a metre away from where we were standing.
Still, I opened the box, pulled out the painting and said,
'Look, this is what it is, ok?'

The senior-most official stepping forward,
knocked on the glass covering the painting and looked over
at me disapprovingly.
'Why you say "glass", this no glass, you go!'
he said, pointing to the escalator.

Two ladies helped to tape up the box and I started running
across the length of Dubai International Airport.
At a brisk walk, this normally takes around 15 minutes.
I must have legged it in 5, half-dragging, half-lifting
the massive painting in the one hand, whilst my carry-on bag,
camera bag and handbag were flapping about my person.

I arrived at the gate, red, sweating and panting.
'You must be Miss Swart?', the smiling airline official said
as he took my ticket. I was the last person to board the flight.

I sank into my seat, with the runway disappearing
underneath us into the night. As the events of the previous
two and a half hours ran through my head, I thought that
the next day, airline security would probably be running
that tape in their break-room, laughing and slapping their
thighs at the spectacle I had created.

And I thought, I wonder who does have the last laugh in
this case? Since I was the one on my way to Kuwait with a
forged degree certificate, a dead pig, AND a painting that
was damn-well covered with glass.


*Countries South Africans DON'T need a visa for:
Malta
Switzerland
New Zealand
Israel
Mozambique
Botswana
Singapore
UK (and then ONLY after they're decidedly rude,
make you spend 4 hours in customs,
and do chest x-rays to check for TB)

(These are the ones I know about. Feel free to add
any others you're aware of. If any.)

The mark of the beast

Look, to be honest, I was quite looking
forward to cat-sitting Birgit's young ginger cat,
Chrisu for a fortnight. Birgit assured me that he
would be fine at entertaining himself, even though
we don't have that much space and cream-coloured
furniture. And if I fed him the tinned food religiously
at night, he would sleep through.

Aah. The penny should have dropped.

Alas, Chrisu-on-tinned-food, would think it was playtime
every morning at 3 am - sharp. I couldn't even lift my arm
at this point, though I did try and persuade him in a lame-armed
sort of way he would be much better off sleeping than playing.
Chrisu remained unconvinced, and was literally bouncing off the walls,
the furniture, the kitchen cabinets, the fridge, my bed, me...
Finally, I would have to resort to earplugs and closing the
bedroom door. Scratch, scratch, meeeoooooowwwww...
MEEEOOOOOWWWWW!!!
Right, Plan C. Except that there was no Plan C.

Perhaps Chrisu and I had a communication problem. I don't think
he spoke that much English. And my Austrian German is quite simply
nonexistent.

So on day 8, my nerves were a bit frazzled. I had barricaded myself in
my bedroom, trying desperately to finish off a painting in time for a
friend's birthday. I was at the stage where I was filling in the finer
details with one of those paintbrushes that have a total of 3 hairs.
Utter precision and concentration was required.

At this point Geoff, my flatmate, sent me a text from the safety
of his car, saying that the cat had quite possibly gone mad,
and was streaking around the front room.
I know Geoff, I know, I thought.

So I decided to risk life and limb to see if I could calm Chrisu down,
who I was now seriously suspecting of bearing the infamous
numeral 666 somewhere underneath all that cute furriness.

As I stepped out of my room, I saw a furry orange streak of ligtning,
launching himself over and top of the lounge furniture, taking a low
jump in between the dining room table, and chairs, and back again
onto the cream-coloured couches. Chrisu finally ends up on top of
the kitchen cabinet, which he gets to by using the top of kitchen
counter and then the fridge as a springboard.

And there he sits looking at me. Defiant and proud, and with what
I can only describe as a slightly evil glint in his eye. And I do the
only thing that's left for me to do to keep my dignity intact.
I cross the line between homo sapien and animal and start hissing
at him. Well, at least it deterred him for a while. The whole of
5 minutes, that is.

Nicole, Birgit's roommate came around a few days later to fetch
Chrisu from me without incident. And everyone will be happy to
know that he is back safely in Birgit's care.
And yet, I still can't shake the feeling that someone or rather
something iswatching me late at night. And then there is the faint
scratching at the door that wakes me every now and then, at 3 am
- sharp.

Inappropriate footwear

The moral of this story would be to ignore
your mother's advice about wearing
clean underwear without any holes in them,
and to wear sensible and dignified
footwear instead.

Case in point.
I was almost involved in an accident this morning.
To be more precise. A mini-van ran me off the road,
and an undisclosed number of traffic cones were
obliterated in the incident, and will now not be
featuring as party hats during Halloween this year.

I was driving along a flyover that joins up with
the mother of all highways, Sheikh Zayed road.
Since the flyover is still under construction,
only two lanes are open to traffic and the rest
are cordoned off with thosefluorescent orange
traffic cones. I was driving in the slow lane,
singing along to the radio. There was a white
mini-van in the fast lane to the left of me.
As we rounded the bend, he decided that
perhaps he would be more suited to the
slow lane. The only problem being, that I
was where he wanted to be.

So he cut into my lane and ran me off
the road. I had to brake quite sharply
to avoid crashing into him and ploughed
into the traffic cones instead.

It all happened so quickly that I was unable
to take down his numberplate or even hoot
at him. So he drove off, and I pulled off to
the side of the road to regain my composure
which was hightailing it after the mini-van
at this point.

I was mad as a bat. Yelling and hooting
(as if that would help NOW), and then
proceeded to get out of my car to check
if there was any damage.

My choice of footwear this morning was
3-inch wedge shoes. Very Barbie-esque,
and very unlike me.

So form a mental picture of me stomping
in very un-Barbie-like fashion around the
back of the car to check the front fender,
only to realise that I had not engaged the
handbrake, and the car was now rolling
forward at quite an alarming rate.

So I'm tottering back as fast as my
wedge-encased feet can carry me to
the driver's seat, to pull up the handbrake,
and possibly avoid a further catastrophe.

This is of course all witnessed by a handful
of road workers on either side of the flyover,
thinking that Christmas or Eid has come early.
Oh, and of couse, all the while I'm still
yelling expletives at the mini-van which
is now long gone and speeding quite happily
along Sheikh Zayed road.

I'm glad to report that the hour of reflective
yoga in the morning is really starting to pay off.

Run visa run!

It’s a bit like going to visit your favourite relative, twice-removed on
your great aunt’s side of the family. You arrive and they give you the
warmest welcome this side of the equator. ‘Stay as long as you like!
Mi casa es su casa!’, they beam at you.
Some time passes, and the glossy veneer on their bright smiles
is starting to wear a bit thin. They haven’t replaced the once fresh
sprig of flowers in your room for days.
Then one fine morning, you wake up, stretch out and go down to the
breakfast room, expecting to find the smell of freshly baked scones
wafting towards you. Nothing. The beating heart of the house is
suddenly still and there seems to be a chill in the air.
You pick up the hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table.
‘Such a pleasure having you here for the past few months.
We feelthat it might be good for you to resume your travels now.
Please leave the key under the doormat on your way out,
and feel welcome to come stay again any time now, y’hear?’

And THAT is what a visa run is. It means quite simply that you have
overstayed your welcome in your host country, and to get back on
the good side of the family, you need to leave the country and then
return with a fresh stamp in your passport.

It incidentally does not involve running of any kind, rather a whole lot
of sitting, either on the plane, or car, or waiting for official-looking
people to stamp important-looking papers.

I went to Doha in Qatar for my visa run. I flew there with
Emirates airlines and their perky air hostesses tried to serve me
some tired sandwiches. The flight was so short, that I couldn’t even fit
in a whole episode of Friends. I arrived at Doha airport, disembarked
the plane, walked in a semi-circle through the airport, sat down for
5 minutes and boarded the very same plane again. I was offered
the same tired sandwiches by the same perky air hostesses.
I finished watching the episode of Friends, and clocked up some
frequent flyer miles.
All in all, not bad for a day’s work, huh?
I felt like an international jetsetter of note, well, except for the fact
that there isn’t really that much happening in Doha. Yet.

So I have now entered the UAE on a working visa as opposed to a
visitor’s visa, and this is valid until the18th May, at which time
I should already have my 3 year residency visa. At which time
Doha might be well worth a second visit, don’t you think?

Automatic for the people

It does seem like all my stories about Dubai seem to revolve around
cars and driving in some way. Cars are BIG over here. And I’m starting
to think by the time I leave I might be able to spot, say an
Aston Martin at a 1000 paces, without breaking a sweat.
How about that Hummer, huh? I hear you can order them in
Ocean Shimmer Blue now.
This in itself is a foreign concept for me, since I don’t really
care what I drive as long asit has four wheels and the ability
to get me to point Z eventually.

So as a transitional mode of transport, I am renting a
Mitsubishi Lancer at the moment. To be honest, I didn’t really know
what a Lancer looked like, so I had to Google it on the internet,
so I would know who to wave at when the car rental company came
to drop it off. OK, so I still had to phone them up and ask which colour,
since the guy that had parked in front of office building did not
take kindly to me trying to get into his car.
Which just happened to be a Mitsubishi Lancer.
What are the odds?

But this story is really about the transition from stick shift
to automatic gears. For instance: you put the car in D for Drive
and you do just that. Or R for Reverse, and so on. You get the picture.
Easy peasy.

About two weeks ago, I park the car at work one morning
just before 8 am, and return after 6 pm that evening to drive home.
To my horror, my car is not in its parking space! Instead, I find it had
rolled back and is now standing in the middle of the parking area!
Shock and horror!

So I do what any respectable person would do in this situation,
which is to half-crouch, semi leopard crawl to the driver’s seat
and get out of there, bank-robbery style with screeching tyres!
Oh, the shame!

The story should have ended there.
The next morning as I drive up to park the car, the car-wash-guy
is waiting for me. ‘Why you park so bad?’ he berates me.
I uh, well now, you see, I forgot to put the car into P (for Park)
and well I also forgot to pull up the handbrake. Very sorry,
really it won’t happen again, I say as I find myself backing away
from the car, and from a guy who probably doesn’t even have a
driver’s license!

So now I do take the extra minute in the morning to double check
my car is in P(ark) and make sure the handbrake is pulled up.
If this had happened in South Africa, someone would have pushed the
car back into its parking space, shoved a brick behind the back wheel
and possibly left a rude note on the windscreen. Short and sweet.

Well Dorothy, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Taxi!

No, no you don’t understand, the address is L A R I V I E R A,
I say spelling it out slowly, you know, like ‘river’, but in Spanish?
I’m busy explaining my address to the taxi company. There is a
zero-tolerance drinking and driving policy in Dubai. If you’re caught,
you go to jail for a month, no questions asked.

So, 30 minutes later, I have been waiting at reception for longer
than I should have. I’ve spoken to the taxi driver a total of 3 times.
He has phoned me, I’ve phoned him. The Pakistani security guard
even gave it a shot, after which he shrugged and said, he speaks
Arabic, madam. Fair enough. And I speak English.I don’t understand,
he doesn’t understand, but hopefully he will find the way.
Eventually.

So Hasem, we’re on first-name basis by the time he arrives,
explains in broken English, that his English is not so good and
that frankly, he did not get half of what I said to him.
It’s ok, just take me to the Irish Village please.

On the journey there, I discover that Hasem, who is Egyptian,
is getting married in October, to a lovely girl called Sara.
I know she’s lovely, because he showes me her picture,
digging it out of his back pocket, while we’re hurtling along
at 120km an hour on Sheikh Zayed road.

He tells of hard working conditions, low wages, and that he
would like to do something other than drive a taxi. But his English
is not good enough, and he doesn’t have the time to study anyway.
In a sudden flash of inspiration, and possibly because I grew up
in a house where my mother was a teacher, I say to him, listen Hasem,
all you need to do is read more. So do yourself a favour,
buy a newspaper every day, keep an English/Arabic dictionary
in your car, and start reading. If you don’t understand something,
just ask, goodness knows, you certainly have enough of a
captive audience for most of the day.

I arrive at my destination, and Hasem is all smiles.
Hell, even I am feeling great at this point. Mabrouk on
getting married (congratulations) and Shukran (thank you)
I say in my own feeble attempt at bridging the language barrier.

*In the time it takes for the traffic light to change

I contemplate peeling my Minneola orange. I’m feeling quite hungry
after work. Then I dismiss the idea, thinking I would probably only
end up with sticky orange fingers and a half-peeled Minneola
in the one hand, angry motorists hooting at me in the background.
Another 30 seconds pass, and I start rooting around looking for the
Minneola that’s rolled in under the front passenger seat,
expecting the light to change at any minute now.
When I come up for air, orange in hand, it’s still red.

I start peeling the orange, keeping an eagle eye on the traffic light.
I finish peeling it and am feeling quite amazed that I’ve achieved this
sitting at the red light. Surely I won’t have time to eat it too!

This Minneola actually doesn’t taste half-bad. I wonder where
it’s imported from (for future reference).
I inspect the discarded peel to look for the little sticker on it.
Mmm, Turkey. Probably not genetically modified then
(if you’re wondering, yes, the light is still red).

I pop the last orange segment into my mouth, and am licking
my fingers clean when the light changes to green.
Just in time then, I think to myself.

*Hint: One can also compile and send 350 character texts on your
mobile phone, read the newspaper and make new friends with the
motorists in the neighbouring car while waiting for the light to change.

Driving on the wrong side of the road

Now, of course over here, that would be the right side of the road.
Anyway, it’s all crazy and edge-of-your-seat type of stuff to drive
over here. I’m definitely getting my daily dose of adrenaline.

Before I came over, I did a bit of reading-up in the Middle East
Lonely Planet travel guide, and the biggest danger in the UAE
was not murder, getting your handbag stolen, or even
getting caught in a huge sandstorm. It was the driving!
The danger doesn’t increase or decrease whether you’re in a car
or not. It’s best to watch out either way.

I would like to say that this is completely overrated. But I can’t.

Sheikh Zayed road which spans 5-6 lanes on each side,
is the main transport artery that runs through Dubai.
And it’s a nightmare if you’re on the wrong side of it
at the wrong time of day. If you’re on the right side of it,
at the right time of day, it’s best to just stick to lane 3 or 4
and look straight ahead. Just accept that you can’t control
what’s happening behind you.

During the recent two days of rain we had over here
(yes, it is the desert), there were approximately 1500
‘minor accidents’ that were reported.
That would amount to an accident happening every 2 minutes.

And by the way, road rage is not tolerated over here. If you swear
at someone or make any rude hand gestures,
you will be either thrown in jail or have to go to court and pay a
HUGE fine.

Good thing that I speak Afrikaans then.

Room with a view

People often exagerate. We’ve all done it a million times to make
a story that bit more juicy. See, there I go again. But I truly live
on a construction site. And I am sending pictures to prove it!

At the moment, I have a 180 degree view from my bedroom of an area
called Dubai Marina. Which is apparently THE address to have in Dubai.

In 2010, that is. When it will actually look like the glossy pictures
in the sales brochures they use to sell these mushrooming developments
to prospective buyers.

Until then, be prepared to sweep building dust out of your house
on a daily basis, and put up with builders working right outside
your bedroom window 24/7.

Ah, home sweet home it is then.

Finding Nermal

Garfield (yes the fat, lazy, lasagna-loving orange cartoon cat) always used to put the cute, little gray kitten, named Nermal into a big old cardboard box with holes punched into it. And mail him to Abu Dhabi.

So I always wondered where on earth that was.

Until now. I drove to Abu Dhabi and back today. Quite a smooth ride, were it not for the fog that obliterated stretches of road. And oh yes, people don't deem it necessary to switch on their headlights. The thrill-factor is right up there with being on a rollercoaster with no safety bar.

Anyway, so I went to visit my friend, Dave who was in turn, visiting Abu Dhabi for the weekend. Now Abu Dhabi is the capital of the UAE, and has a lovely, big palace.
But doesn't see much action on a Friday, which is the holy day here. So we proceeded to drive up and down the length of the city, seemingly trying to find Nermal.

I headed back to Dubai just after 3, since I was going to an Arno Carstens concert in the evening. Supporting SA music! The funniest thing happened before the start of the concert. A guy came up to me asking me if a) my name was Lezanne and b) if I attended Suid-Natal High (in Port Shepstone). What are the chances really?
So I didn't recognise him at all, but turns out that it was Ernst van der Poll, who took my best friend to the matric dance. I was having flash-backs of my school days, long after the show ended! The show was fantastic, by the way.

So on the question of finding Nermal. Not yet. But I intend to keep looking.

Getting from A to B

I am the first to admit that I certainly did liken Mathematics to Rocket Science at school. I really should have studied typing, or maybe even woodwork instead.
So having said that, I can't seem to do the equation of getting from point A to B over here, but having to pass through point Q first, taking a left at point T, a sharp right at point V and then finally doing a U-turn (haha) at point X, before finally, inexplicably reaching point B.

But this seems to be how reaching one's point B adds up to over here. I mean, you can literally see your destination, it's right THERE, but once you've navigated around all the detours, you end up thinking it might have only been a mirage.

Crack open the champagne!

Dave, a good friend from SA, who now lives in Kuwait came to visit over the weekend. In true Dave-fashion, he showed up with a bottle of Veuve and a big smile.

Needless to say, we did a lot of mall-hopping, which is possibly similar to pub-crawling but without the hangover in the morning. And he insisted on getting me proper shoes. He is trying hard to convert me from wearing ONLY flip-flops. It might be a long and difficult process... The shoes are fab, by the way.

So in conclusion, let it be known that anyone that shows up with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot is most welcome to come and visit. At anytime. Seriously, no questions asked. 3 o'clock in the morning? No problem!

Payday! Yay!

Need I say more!!! Off to go SHOPPING! Oh yes, and buy something other than aubergines to eat...

You know you're famous when...

You make it into the pages of the regional Western Cape newspaper, Die Burger! (Thanks for sending the clipping, Susan!)
A calendar FusionDesign entered into the Stuttgart International Calendar Competion won a silver! Wait, wait, I have a speech prepared. It's here somewhere...
Each of the designers carved four HUGE wooden blocks and these designs were used to create the final 16-month calendar which was silk-screened onto printer's make-ready sheets aka waste sheets.
Which brings us back to the missing A1+ size piece of distraction-luggage. Yup, it was one of the calendars I lugged all the way to the desert. It did eventually make it to my door, a week later.

Would an aubergine by any other name taste the same?

So, for the time being, until we get paid, Johan and I are trying to lie low and save money. Take groceries for instance, you can buy 15 Iranian eggplants for 6 DHS. But if you buy the ones that are imported from Holland, it's 20 DHS a kilo. So I figure, there's a bigger chance that the ones from Europe are genetically modified than the ones coming from Iran. Besides, they've got, er, other eggplant to fry at the moment. The only thing is that we're running out of ideas on how to prepare aubergines. Recipes anyone?

Is that snow?!?

I met up with an old friend from Saudi Arabia today. Abe and I haven't seen each other since a teary departure
from Disney World in January 2001. So quite fitting to meet up in a mall, called IBN Battuta, which is laid out as six
different countries, and kind of made me think back to Millennium Village at Epcot Centre in Florida.
From there we moved on to the Mall of the Emirates. Which is huge. And has a ski slope. With snow. Real snow, people.
I will have to send pictures. Because who's gonna believe there's snow in the desert when it's like 50 degrees Celcius outside?

Days of the week

So I figured, things are a bit different here. Take for instance the days of the week.
Thursday is Friday
Sunday is Monday
Friday is Sunday (religion-wise)
Tuesday is Wednesday
And Saturday is Saturday, except that you might get the Sunday blues,
because remember, Sunday is Monday!

The Towers...

I had my first day at the office with an orange wall today. Work being at a company called electric-orange which is situated on the 22nd floor of the Emirates Towers. It's in the taller of the two buildings. Pretty impressive architecture, hey? The view from up here is amazing. And yes, I am working as a graphic designer. Have to put the old education to some good use :)

A mythical city rising from the desert

It seemed like we had been transported to another planet. One that was being built all at the same time, with the deadline for construction to be finished within 25 days. After all, it was close to 2 am on Tuesday morning & there were people working on about 40, 40-storey buildings around our new apartment. This early in the morning it looked spectacular. Lights twinkling, with even the cranes sitting atop the buildings being lit up.

At this time we were so hyper, (the HUGE A1+ size piece of luggage got left behind in JHB, and would be delivered the following day) that we only got to bed at about 3 am.

Wow, a brand-new country. Which at this moment looks like a giant construction site.

Off to the desert...finally

Tips on being overweight at the airport.

No diet needed actually. Just charm, and a HUGE A1+ size piece of luggage, that needs FRAGILE stickers and also to be booked onto the flight separately. This is called distraction, and in Cape Town still seems to work better than bribery. I had approximately 50 kilo's of luggage on my own. I was allowed 20. ( Just to put you in the picture.)

Yes, so after having a few nervous breakdowns in the days preceding the flight, we finally made it to the airport and were off to the desert. I was a bit stressed (ok, really stressed for those who saw me the day before I left) since I knew that my luggage would be WAY overweight. And it dawned on me just then, that I was actually LEAVING the country!

We had to run through Jo'burg airport with a 20 minute window between flights. At last we could sit back and relax on the Emirates Airlines flight. Which was wonderful, by the way, The in-flight entertainment was fantastic, and the 7 hour flight seemed too short to fit everything in!