Tales from the Desert

mmm, addendum to the previous post

2009-03-25T23:46:00.000-07:00

I should add that my list of 40 things might change slightly,
if 2012 turns out to be the year where life as we know it, ends.

For those of you who are not aware of this. December 21, 2012,
is when the Mesoamerican or Mayan Long Count calendar ends.
This has led scientists, soothsayers and anyone with a dusty crystal
ball to believe that there will either be an Apocalypse or a complete
shift in human consciousness.

If I had a choice, I would vote for the latter to happen.

But you have to ask yourself, is this another scare like the Y2K bug?
Or like the Medieval times where the Apocalypse was predicted and
people were lying naked on their rooftops awaiting the end? Only to
see the sun rise yet again the next morning, albeit buck-naked
and shivering?

Still, why is it that when you Google '2012', it comes back with
226 million hits? Could it be that the human race, just loves themselves
a little bit of drama?

40 Things to do before I turn 40

2009-03-10T03:26:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I will be turning 34. So for this birthday, as a little
to-do list gift to myself, I've decided to finally complete and
post the following.

The idea for a 40 things list originated with my dear friend,
Liezel. Only, she drew hers up in good time, as is normally
the case with her.

It took me a bit longer to compile my list, mainly because I
didn't know what the hell to put on it. But finally, here goes:

1) Host a solo exhibition of paintings
2) Host a solo exhibition of photographs
3) Learn to speak Spanish fluently
4) Learn to dive
5) Learn to make the perfect omelette
6) Write and illustrate a children's book
7) Find my place in the world
8) Plant and eat the fruit of my very own fig tree
9) Give up my nail-biting habit and go for my
first manicure ever
10) Visit Cuba
11) Spend time assisting a renowned photographer
12) Have my pictures published in National Geographic
13) Meet Oprah Winfrey
14) Visit Iceland to see the aurora borealis
15) Change careers
16) Visit Mexico during the 'Day of the Dead' celebrations
17) Go to the 10 year Mill Vill Anniversary in 2010
18) Watch more sunsets and sunrises
19) Learn web design
20) Design and print my own t-shirt range
21) Spend at least 4 weeks in a Buddhist monastery
22) Learn to do an unsupported handstand
23) Do a Yoga Teacher Training course
24) Learn to swim properly
25) Visit Helen Martins' Owl House in Nieu Bethesda
26) Read 50 to a 100 books every year
27) Learn to travel lighter (emotionally and literally speaking)
28) Complete a jewellery design course
29) Live a greener life
30) Back-pack through South America for 4 months or longer
31) Get involved in an AIDS or poverty charity or community
initiative in Africa,
32) Learn to cook proper Indian food
33) Learn to love unreservedly
34) Work or study in the design industry in Scandinavia at least once
35) Learn to be a better hiker, and better outdoorsy person in general
36) Visit Alaska, before the glaciers disappear
37) Take a year off from having a 'proper job' to just travel, paint,
take pictures and live a entirely bohemian life
38) Take life less seriously by laughing longer and more often
(especially at myself)
39) Write down 5 things each day that made me feel happy or grateful
40) Remember to live more in the moment, since this moment is
the only one we ever really have

An ambitious 6-year plan? Perhaps. A lot of adventure in store? Definitely!

consume less. experience more. (TM)

2009-01-29T13:30:00.001-08:00

Well. That there would be my motto for the year.

In an extremely funny twist of fate - glittering, glorious Dubai has
made me supremely anti-materialistic and more pro living a simpler,
greener life. You know the kind where you actually interact with people,
and you're part of a community? You might even be tempted to start
growing some of you own food. Yes, get your hands dirty, so to speak.

That's why I'm cutting down and cutting back this year. Spending and
consuming less of this planet's resources and I'm all about having
more and better experiences. Because that's all you're ever really left
with at the end of the day.

You can order the organic cotton t-shirt here :)

Ode to all of the things I did not want to see

2008-12-12T21:14:00.000-08:00

We sometimes have the tendency to store the stuff we don't want to
deal with in the back of the closet. We close our eyes to them and label
them as being too painful, too embarrassing, they just don't fit in with
our ideal of what the 'perfect me' should look like.

I spent most of this year venturing forth into the proverbial, belly of
the beast. Or what I previously thought of as my 'dark side'. And what
I discovered there at the back of the closet was that was that many of
them weren't demons at all, but beautiful undiscovered and disowned
parts of myself. These are the really 'juicy' bits of our personality, so we
might as well polish them up and put them on display.

This painting is a little tribute to my journey this past year.

meet big mama

2008-11-06T20:49:00.000-08:00

Well folks, this here is Big Mama. She is the latest addition to
my camera collection and also my first proper digital SLR, the
Canon 40D! Very exciting.

I have a feeling her and I will be embarking on lots of grand
adventures together.
:)

reading the instructions is sometimes helpful

2008-11-04T06:22:00.000-08:00

I have one of those inflatable mattresses, which come in really
handy when one has guests over and you run out of beds.
Naturally, if one has an inflatable mattress, so one should also
have the little electrical pump to go with it.

This pump can be plugged into your wall socket at home or when
you go campingit can be plugged into the car's lighter outlet.

The first couple of times I had plugged the pump into the wall
socket and I inflated the queen-size mattress with the pump, it
worked just fine. But then when I hauled it out again, it suddenly
started running out of air. Having only my limited knowledge of
electronic devices to fall back on, I assumed that just like a
hairdryer, the motor had burnt out.

I decided that I would simply go and buy another pump and
then take the older one back in it's place to get a refund, because
at this point in time, I had long since thrown away the receipt.
Sometimes one just needs to be a little resourceful. Or so
I thought.

Only thing was that when I tried to use the new pump, it inflated
the mattress halfway and then started to make the suspiciously
familiar noise which I by now equated with the motor burning out.
How was this possible? I was fuming and my friend had to sleep on
the couch for the weekend, because I sure as hell wasn't going to
buy a third pump.

Taking stock, I now had two useless pumps, one receipt and in
between buying the two, their packaging had also changed which
would probably make it harder to explain to the store that they were
both actually virtually brand-new.

Nonetheless, I put both in the boot of my car, with the solid intention
of going back to the store and lecturing them on keeping a better brand
of inflatable mattress pump.

Looking back, that was a year ago. In the meantime, the pumps
had ended up back in my room, in the back of my closet and lay
there forgotten.

This past weekend, I was clearing out some of my closets, getting rid
of things, when none other than the two pumps surface again.

A little voice in the back of my head said that I should really give
them one more try, before relegating them to the recycling bin.
I plugged each one in and turned them on. The first one, nothing.
The second one, gave a sigh like a tired old car that was on its last wheels.

In a fit of frustration, I pulled out the little multi-lingual instruction
manual. And there in plain Oxford English at the very top of the
list under the heading of INSTRUCTIONS it states: 'Pump must be
charged before use and is not designed for inflation directly from
household AC power sources.'

Right. Well that would pretty much explain everything. I left those
little suckers to charge for 10 hours and sure enough, when I
unplugged them and flipped the switch, the high whining noise
emanating from those black pumps would have put any respectable
vacuum cleaner to shame.

Needless to say I am now the very proud owner of two inflatable
mattress pumps in perfect working order. Any takers?

forthcoming attractions

2008-08-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was chatting to my super-inspirational friend,
Rita Dhankani, and I mentioned that I wanted to do an exhibition and
if she would interested in joining me.

Next thing I know, we have together a group of 8 designers
(from various backgrounds) and we are se-ri-ous-ly going to launch
an exhibition!

How exciting is this!?

Right. So all we have to do now is sort out all the little details,
such as gallery space, group name, theme, etc. Oh yeah, and produce
the actual pieces.

Watch this space for a Designers' Art Exhibtion coming to a town near you!
:)

!Hola! Yo soy Lezanne

2008-08-08T04:44:00.000-07:00

My good friend Liezel, made a list a few years ago, called
'40 things to do before I turn 40'. I thought that this was an
excellent idea and started making my very own list. Only thing
is, my list is still incomplete as of now. Perhaps 'Completing
my list of 40 things' should be ON the actual list.

I digress.

So right at Number 3 on my list it says: 'Learn to speak Spanish
like a Spaniard'.

Which is why I recently enrolled myself for a Spanish Language
Course through Berlitz here in Dubai.

During the first 5 minutes of our very first lesson, our Mexican
teacher, Ana Maria, told us in English that this would in fact be
the last English we would be speaking for the duration of our
course. See, Berlitz is based on a learning system of total
immersion in the language.

And that's exactly what it has felt like. As if someone has
dropped me into the deep end of this wondrous ocean filled
with Spanish words. Suddenly I have to make room for and
wrap my tongue around all these beautifully sonorous words.

And even though I'm just treading water at the moment
to stay afloat, I can just feel that in time I will become a
champion swimmer! Move over Penny Heyns, there's a new
kid in town.

on leaving one's mark

2008-08-07T02:35:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago, I attended part of a yoga workshop given by
Jeff Phenix. On the second day of the workshop, we were doing a preparatory pose for scorpion. We had to clasp our hands in front of us on our yoga mats and then kick our legs over so that our feet would touch the wall. You could then walk your feet down the wall and perhaps take one foot away from the wall at a time. In other words, slowly working towards coming into the full scorpion posture, eventually.

I was a bit overzealous and kicked over, feet missing the wall completely and instead flipped straight into Chakrasana or wheel pose. However, there was a very loud CRASH as both my knees made contact with the wall as I came down. I rolled away from the wall, and Shock! Horror! realised that my left knee had gone straight through the drywall.
Talk about leaving one's mark!

Jeff Phenix thought it was super-funny and kept sniggering about it throughout the rest of the session. (And to be honest, it was pretty hilarious.) I think the other yoga students were either in shock or awe. Couldn't quite tell from their expressions.

All I can say is don't try this at home folks. Or if you do, make sure your legs are long enough to reach the wall.

And yes, I'm ok, apart from a few bruises to the knees and ego.
Thanks for asking.

reversal of seasons

2008-07-22T00:25:00.000-07:00

Things work a little bit differently here in the Middle East,
and that goes even for the seasons.

For instance, everywhere else across the Northern Hemisphere,
people are rejoicing because summer has finally come. They
go to the park or beach during the weekend and pretty much
try to spend every waking moment outside, just soaking up the
summer sun.

Over here, the modus operandi is as follows:
You do not, under any circumstances go outside in the summer
time. If you have to leave the air-conditioned house, office or
shopping mall you do so entirely at your own peril. With the
mercury pushing the early 50's and the humidity at at least
60 or 70%, you can understand why people seem to 'hibernate'
here during the summer months.

The sensation of going outside is very similar to repeatedly
opening the door of a very hot walk-in oven.

The added bonus of course, of spending all of the summer
months indoors, is that you end up sniffling and wheezing
through a bout of flu. And the mere idea of 'wrapping up
warmly' and snuggling down is suddenly not so appealing.

As for me, I'll just be staying at home for now, nursing my flu.
I'll tell you one thing though, I can't wait for winter to arrive,
so I can go to the beach!

improve your vocabulary & end world hunger

2008-07-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

I came across this great site today. You play a game where
you test your vocabulary and for each correct word,
you donate 20 grains of rice through the UN World Food
Program to help end hunger.

What a fantastic idea! Which just goes to show once again
that it pays to improve your word power.

anything but lonely in istanbul

2008-07-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Istanbul very early on Thursday morning. Driving
into the city, the day's first call to prayer rang out into the crisp air
from various mosques on the way to my hotel.

It was certainly a jam-packed four days, and I found that it is virtually
impossible to try and get some 'alone-time' in this ancient city. If it's
not the waiter offering to 'show' you around the city after his shift ends
(at 1 am, I might add!), it's an old man trying his luck by giving you a
free tour of the Hagia Sofia, of which he had been the manager for
some 28 years odd. That little incident ended with me jumping into
a taxi with my luggage, a-la-movie-scene-getaway-style, and telling
the taxi driver to 'Go! Go! Go!' Turns out the old man's daughter just
happened to own the travel agency right next door to the hotel I was
staying at for 1 out of the 4 days of my trip.

By day three, I even had a guy who wanted to give me a carpet as
a gift, which I politely, but firmly refused. I'm guessing that In Africa,
that would be the equivalent of the groom's family negotiating
'lobola' or dowry, which is measured in cattle.

If you'd ever like to experience having so many men approach you
that you feel like you're swatting away flies, then I invite you to visit
Istanbul. After a few days, one does grow weary though of hearing
'Where are you from?' or 'Come inside, I'd like to show you something'.

That aside, the history and culture is truly astounding. Just about
everybody who was somebody has passed through this city, always
trying to conquer it.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of all the sights and sounds.
I even ended up dancing in a local neighbourhood street to some great
traditional music and managed to spend some time with my dear friend,
Rowena from London.

Those that know me, will tell you that I am indeed trigger-happy,
and I took over a thousand pictures in these four days.
That's a new record, even by my standards!

I arrived back in Dubai this morning and it's always a bit of a rude
awakening as to how quickly one is thrust back into the same
old routine. The weekend already feels like a dream, fleeting and
hard to imagine that I was really in another country just a few hours ago.

Thank you for the music

2008-06-29T10:32:00.001-07:00

I believe that books and songs and friends carry us through
the rough patches in life. Alanis Morissette in particular has
been my saviour at times. If my iPod could wear thin in the places
where I have listened to her amazing words over and over again,
it would have. I love her new album and this song resonates with
me in particular.

Incomplete

One day I'll find relief
I'll be arrived
And I'll be friend to my friends who know how to be friends
One day I'll be at peace
I'll be enlightened and I'll be married with children and maybe adopt
One day I will be healed
I will gather my wounds forge the end of tragic comedy

I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete

One day my mind will retreat
And I'll know God
And I'll be constantly one with her night dusk and day
One day I'll be secure
Like the women I see on their thirtieth anniversaries

I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete

Ever unfolding
Ever expanding
Ever adventurous
And torturous
And never done

One day I will speak freely
I'll be less afraid
And measured outside of my poems and lyrics and art
One day I will be faith-filled
I'll be trusting and spacious authentic and grounded and home

I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete

on the wrong side of the law?

2008-06-20T13:54:00.000-07:00

Yes. this is one of those things which will happen to me at 5 am
on a Monday morning.

Picture it.
Me, en-route to the airport to fetch my mother. I'd woken
up only half hour earlier, so I look like hell.

Suddenly I see the flash of blue lights behind my car. I pull over.
A guy that I can only accurately guess at around 12 years of age
says: 'License, registrrrration.'

I frantically start shaking out all the plastic cards in my wallet.
Then he makes me follow him to a quieter part of the road. Read:
deserted. His police buddy now stumbles out of the car. He has
clearly just woken up.

I finally locate the damn licence with the bad picture and hand it
over. Then the questions start. Where you going? Where you live?
Where you work? You have businesscard? As I dutifully hand over
my business card, the next question makes me see the light.

'You marrrried?'
Ah. I see. I am being hit on by a friggin' 12-year old policeman
at 5 o'clock in the morning.

Then the ridiculous 'Why your car dirty?' Er, that would perhaps
be because we live in the bloody desert with at least one sandstorm
a day during the summer.

'I call you tomorrrrow, I wash your car.'
Me thinking: WHAT THE HELL?

At this point, I'm seriously starting to lose my patience with the law.
My mother's flight has now already landed. He finally hands me back
my license and registration, but not my business card.

Subsequently, the juvenile policeman has now been phoning me
every day since Monday. I have yet to pick up the call. I mean what do
I say: 'If you call me again, I'm phoning the police?'

no 'BLEEP' in this city

2008-06-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, everyone is raving about the much awaited 'BLEEP and
the City: The Movie'. Everyone, that is, except us.

Fortunately the good residents of the UAE will not be exposed
to such filth, since the dreaded word: S E X, is mentioned in the
very title of this movie. Shock! Horror! This simply will not do!

It is after all against the law of this country to have relations outside
of wedlock.

This would be the reason why there are so many gunshot weddings
amongst the expats. A woman will be deported if she is pregnant
and unmarried.

Clearly nobody here believes in the old 'immaculate conception' story.
Sorry for us.

I guess I will now be forced to travel to a more sinful country in order
to compromise my morals and watch this movie.

And so I came to Dubai to become a...

2008-04-30T00:44:00.000-07:00

yogini?

Aristotle said, 'Those that know, do. Those that understand, teach'.

I guess I've really never even had it in my grand scheme of things to
become a yoga teacher. It's just kind of happened. Well, having said
that, I'm really only one fith of the way there, after having completed
40 hours of teacher's training with Caroline Klebl last week.

It's kind of amazing to watch how life unfolds, if you're just willing to
let it. One moment you feel like you've lost your way in the most absurd,
materialistic desert city in the world, and in the next you're suddenly
heading exactly where you were always meant to be going. Only you
never knew that yourself before.

I know, I KNOW what you're thinking. But to me it all makes perfect
sense to me now in an Alice in Wonderland kind of way.

Curiouser and curiouser!

the next best thing

2008-03-10T08:42:00.001-07:00

When I saw this 'Organic Hemp Plus Brownie Mix' - I did a double take
and promtly dropped a packet into my trolley. Then I remembered that
I am in the UA of E and not in Amsterdam. I'm thinking this is probably the
closest one will come to the baking of space cakes in this country.

I guess even if it just gives me a cheap thrill on the eve of my birthday,
well then dammit, that's still worth something, right?

Here's to having high expectations for a great 2008!

things we released to the fire

2008-03-04T07:45:00.001-08:00

I recently felt the need to hold a release ceremony. I had visions
of burning things on my balcony and subsequently setting off
the fire alarm in the apartment. Or perhaps setting the whole
building on fire. One never can tell just in which way these things
will unfold.

I enlisted the support of three willing friends and it was agreed
that we would go out into the desert with the next full moon and
even camp out there for the night.

It turned out to be a truly liberating experience. Each of us had written
down the things which we wanted to let go of on a piece of paper.
We took turns throwing it into the fire and releasing whatever it was
we felt no longer served us in our lives, be it old relationships,
ideas or habits.

We then proceeded to crack open the Bailey's irish cream. Releasing is
thirsty work, you know.

The next morning, I had a a bit of a hangover, but overall there was a
feeling of lightness. The heavy feeling which had hounded me and sat
squarely on my heart for years, had finally gone up in smoke.

As one of my favourite Capetonian yoga teachers, Henry, used to say in
his inimitable way, 'let go yourself, let loose yourself'.

And in a weird way, I think I finally get what he was trying to tell us.

My super-amazing, totally fantastic powers of observation

2008-03-03T06:35:00.000-08:00

I have to boldly admit to living in dubai in this very apartment for
almost a year and a half, before a friend told me that our mutual
friend, Zigi's face was plastered all over the side of sheikh zayed road.

I almost rolled my car when i saw for myself that I'd been living
right on top of my friend's head for well over a year and was
blissfully unaware.

Here's proof at last that graphic designers are fantastic at paying
attention to detail.

I rest my case.

lover's paradise?

2008-01-14T21:40:00.001-08:00

I recently took a trip to the Maldives with my good friend, Dave.
An idyllic setting. Palm trees gently swaying in the breeze, pristine
white beaches, water an impossibly aquamarine colour. Well you
get the picture. Exactly like a postcard.

Just one little problem. We were surrounded at any one time, by dozens
of couples lovingly staring into each other's eyes and whispering
sweet nothings. At one point, we turned to each and said almost in
unison, 'Sheesh, do you feel SINGLE?'

One guidebook described it so aptly; they said that going to the
Maldives when you're single, is like being all alone on Valentines Day.
Indeed.

Aside from that, we simply had a lovely time, with none of the staring
and none of the whispering and sipping at just enough of the overpriced
happy hour cocktails to take the edge off.

Apparently the island for single people is still being built. Go figure.
And with the prediction that by the year 2020, the Maldives would have
disappeared because of the rising water levels, there isn't much time left
to go to the Maldives and not feel like a social outcast.

Right ho! Next destination please.

the end of love

2007-12-07T01:38:00.000-08:00

I've been stuck creatively for a long time now. I was wondering what
would be able to break open this obstruction. Last week it came in
search of me and found me late on a Tuesday afternoon.

I now think that if you're lucky you realise that the thing which
punches you in the gut and leaves you for dead, is often the very thing
you've been waiting to come along and save your life.

This triptych is called 'The end of love'.

Enough said.

HP in 3D

2007-09-13T08:02:00.000-07:00

As most of you are aware, the 5th Harry Potter was released a few
weeks ago. I was quite excited to go and watch it. Ok, understatement.
I was dying to go and watch it! But first, I had to speed-read through
the 7th and last HP book. Couldn't risk anyone giving the ending away.
I avoided any moderately literate people for 3 days straight.

I was off early on a Thursday afternoon, so on the spur of
the moment I decided to watch the Harry Potter in IMAX 3D.
Bigger is better, right? And if that bigger is 3D, well. What more
can a girl ask for?

I was just in time for the movie, so there was no time to ask
for instructions. It seemed simple enough. Put glasses on.
Watch movie. I picked up my oversized pair of 3D glasses at the door.
The plastic kind, with a nice thick black frame, one lense red and the
other green. I was ready.

As soon as I put them on, I knew instinctively that I looked like
'The Fly'. None of this mattered, however. It was Harry Potter
and it was 3D.

Two thirds through the movie, I was having serious issues about
3D not being all it was cracked up to be. I even had to pay more
for the movie ticket, dammit! Surely, things had to at least look
a bit, well, three-dimensional?

And then, realisation dawned, or rather it struck me square between
the eyes. The start of the 15 minute 3D segment of the movie was
indicated by the pair of glasses flashing on the screen. As in 'ok people,
put on your fly-goggles now'.

Oh right. Oh no. I sank down a bit lower in my chair and then tried
to glance surreptitiously to my left and right. Was I the only idiot who
had had my 3D specs on throughout the entire movie? It would
seem so. Eish.

If someone asks me now what I thought of the HP movie, I reply:
'Oh, it was great! Loved it! Saw the ENTIRE movie in 3D, wouldn't
you know?'

Taking out the trash

2007-06-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

Today I want to talk about the things that scare me most.

First off: natural childbirth.
My pain threshold is really low. I'm not doing it. Period.
Not unless I'm stranded in some godforsaken log cabin in
the middle of a freak-snowstorm. And the man who is
stranded with me, Henri, who is not the father of my baby
of course, just happens to be a qualified 'murse', or male
nurse. Log fire crackling cosily in the background. Me,
sweaty and red in the face, hurling obscenities at the Frenchman
in between contractions. Sigh. It would be just like an episode
out of 'The Bold and the Beautiful'. Not that I'm pregnant
or anything, I'm just stating it for the record. When the time
comes, I will call upon Ceasar.

Et tu Brute?

The next thing that really, really scares me and makes me
wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night, is the state
of the world today. More specifically, what we're doing to
our planet. If we carry on like this, hell, there really won't be
anything left for our children. And then what's the use of
having the whole rigmarole in the log cabin with the
snowstorm and the French murse called Henri?

This is why I've started My Next Big Project: recycling.
My flatmate who is an innocent bystander in all of this,
has now been sufficiently guilted into separating all
of his trash into paper, plastic, cans and glass. Think of
your unborn children, I plead.
Let's just say, I know how to pull a guilt-trip.

No compost heap, as of yet though. I live on the 10th floor
of a modern apartment block and we have a really teensy
weensy balcony with a breathtaking view over the 12 lane
highway. The neighbours would definitely talk and besides,
it would stink to high heaven.

So after I making my first trip to the recycling bins this week,
I have to confess: dumping the waste of our lives into the
appropriately marked recycling containers, made me feel like
a better person, like I could walk a little taller. Take it from me,
that's a big thing for a vertically challenged person.

My next project? To change all the lightbulbs in the house
to energy-efficient ones. You can be sure it will involve a lot
of 'how many vegetarians does it take to screw in 20
energy-efficient lightbulbs?' jokes, inflicted on me by
my carnivorous flatmate.

Yup, it's payback time.

Singing in the shower?

2007-05-09T09:58:00.000-07:00

Today I need to speak about the size of my shower.
I need to get it off my chest. Air it. Hang it out to dry.
In short, it's coming out of the closet for all the
world to see.

I have now determined that my shower is in fact,
smaller than the triangular-shaped one I had in my shared
cabin on the cruise ship I had worked on. I didn't think that
was possible.

That is until I moved into La Riviera Tower. A glittering jewel
set amidst the luxurious building site and dumping ground
of the UAE's cutting-edge city of Dubai.

So without further ado, here follows an account of my
morning shower routine.

I open up the taps and let the water run a bit, till the
hot water comes through. It's all good. I then proceed
to get into the shower and try to close the L-shaped
shower curtains around me. This often fails miserably,
since the curtain rail sags in the middle and this,
in turn causes the curtains on both sides to slide into
the centre as well. I try and remedy this by splashing water
onto the tiles to my left and my right and then 'sticking'
the plastic layer of the shower curtain onto the tiles.

I then proceed wash the whole of my body as quickly as possible.
This would be easier if my now wet skin didn't also stick
to the plastic shower curtain, which makes the 'sealed-off'
bits come away from the tiles and gape open to the left
and right of me. More splashing of tiles and sticking of
curtains. More peeling my wet butt off of the shower curtains.
As you see, this ritual could continue for hours.

After I've tried to get to all the bits that needed cleaning,
I open up the curtains with a flourish, only to find the Mississippi
River lapping gently at the edges of the shower basin. And look!
There goes Huck Finn, feet a'dangling off the edges of the woven
reed IKEA mat, drifting downriver towards the living room.

The joys of living in a country claiming to be at the cutting-edge
of just about everything you've ever heard of, never ceases to
amaze me. Perhaps they should go back and learn the basics of
plumbing? Until then, I guess I just won't be singing in my shower.

C'mon Dover, move yer bloomin' arse!

2007-04-07T00:25:00.000-07:00

BEFORE THE RACES: All the ladies in their finery.

Hilarity ensues...

since the mutant clone-dwarves also came to the party.

MUCH LATER: My friend Werner and I.

You know, when I think about horseracing, I cannot help but
recall Audrey Hepburn in the movie, 'My Fair Lady'. I still
remember we had 'taped' it when it was shown on TV
one night. Our family then proceeded to watch that movie
till the visual was stretchy and the sound had gone to hell.

One of the best parts of the movie, for me at any rate, was
when Eliza Doolittle, gets all toffed up for the races and then
in all of the excitement in cheering on her favourite horse,
forgets herself and all of Professor Higgins's efforts and
yells at the top of her voice 'C'mon Dover, move yer
bloomin' arse!'

That, in a nutshell, is the Dubai World Cup. The richest
horse race in the world. The prize money this year for the
winning horse was USD 6 million. This amount has been
upped to USD 10 million for next year.

The races are basically an opportunity for people to get
dressed up in silly hats and frilly frocks (there were even
a few tophats) and then get as drunk as possible, so that
Eliza's little mishap pales in comparison.

Ah well, at least a good day was had by all. Makes one
think though. You can dress 'em up, but you can't take
'em anywhere.

The sum of us

2007-04-06T23:48:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, there was an article in the local newspapers
about a three-digit numberplate, E 15, which cost Dhs 3.12 million.

You could say that it was a noble thing for a son to give his
father this numberplate as a thank you gift. You could also look
around Dubai and start adding up the sum of people's lives.
Most of who seem not to add up to very much at all.

A fine example would be the mostly Indian and Pakistani
labourers who are quite literally building Dubai. Yet, they get
paid a meagre wage of approximately Dhs600 - 700 a month.
Most of which is sent home to their families. How DO they survive,
we wonder, as we sip at our Starbucks Skinny Latte Cappucino.

There are people in Asia who survive on less than one US Dollar
a day. Africa - same desperate story.

I always have to wonder if some people's lives are worth more
than others? We can only look to President Bush to see that he
thought the people who were involved in the 9/11 attacks,
were worth more than the people who lived down South, after
Hurricane Katrina devastated their lives.

Robert Mugabe has single-handedly ruined so many people's
lives in Zimbabwe. Yet, the world sits back and watches. After all,
there's nothing of real value in Zimbabwe. Now Iraq, there's a
different story. They have oil, don't they?

It seems that this is life though. We live in a consumer-driven
society, where more is better and the simple things in life are simply
not free anymore. And if you happen to have a magic three-digit
number, well, you should thank your lucky stars, and count your
riches once again.

As for myself? I try to remember that every person, no matter
how poor, has a wealth of family history and unique stories to tell.
And isn't that true sum of us?

Sand gets in your eyes

2007-03-16T06:37:00.001-07:00

'Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of
our lives'.

I hear you. It's been a while. And a lot has happened.
I often think my life is more interesting than a soap opera.
Or as I think of it here in the desert, a sand opera.

We are experiencing the infamous sand storms, or
'shammal' as they are better known here in the Gulf,
that signify the onset of spring. Ah, spring, such a
special time of the year, don't you think?

Add to this, that our balcony door has been broken
for over two weeks. Of course this happened just after
the one-year maintenance guarantee had expired.
Good to know that things are still built to last.
The nitty-gritty of it is, that it's up to us to get it fixed now.

I've given up and started inviting the kids in the building
around to come and play in the sandpit, or the space
formerly known as the living room.

In conclusion, I came across this profound statement by a
resident in Dubai regarding the shammal in the online newspaper,
Gulf News:

'I went out and saw my car covered with a thick coat of sand.
I wiped it and the sand was red. But then it rained, and then
all the sand was tuned to mud.'

Ahmed
Dubai, UAE

Be sure to 'tune' in again for more riveting sandstorms in
a teacup.

2006-08-28T02:34:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-28T02:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-07-15T04:51:00.000-07:00

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.)

2006-06-12T03:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-05-31T21:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-04-26T04:19:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-04-11T05:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-03-23T02:02:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-08T04:21:00.000-08:00

*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.

2006-03-08T04:16:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-05T01:28:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-19T01:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-19T01:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-19T01:47:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-02-02T08:59:00.000-08:00

Payday! Yay!

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

2006-01-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-24T21:09:00.000-08:00

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?

2006-01-20T01:09:00.000-08:00

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?

2006-01-19T22:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-01-18T21:50:00.000-08:00

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 :)

2006-01-17T14:30:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-16T01:27:00.000-08:00

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!