"The way is not in the sky. The way is in the heart."

While the rest of the world continued to throw the end of all hissy-fits, I had a holiday.

You may have already read a little about me and MY Sri Lanka (yes, that's right, I own it now), but now comes the interesting bit. When we decided to go to there, it was mainly because we have a Sri Lankan Maid, and so we believed we had a built-in tour guide. We decided to book in Nuwara Eliya, because this would allow us the benefit of visiting the centre of Buddhism in Sri Lanka, Kandy, and Mary's home town, Spring Valley, near Badulla.

We came to Nuwara Eliya via the Kandy rd, and I wasn't the only one looking whistfully out the car window, wishing that we had stayed there when we passed (after a 2:30am start, a 4-hour flight, obligatory airport battles and another 4 hours in the car with cranky leprichauns). But I underestimated what was still coming. Although already in high hills, we continued to climb towards the clouds, and they hid the eventuality of our journey - we knew we needed to get to the top, but where exactly was it?

Nuwara Eliya is about 200km from Colombo. That might sound an easy couple of hours, but Sri lankan roads are almost entirely just one lane each way, potholed, unsignposted, and with a population of 22 million in an island only just over 430km long, you can imagine how busy they are. Driving in Sri Lanka is like driving in India, and I can only recommend getting someone else to do it for you.

The scenery is beyond spectacular. About an hour out of Nuwara Eliya, the tea plantations start, and they coat the hillsides like unending topiary gardens. Every square inch is cultivated, and occasionally we also passed vegetable or rice plots (more vegetables and less rice the higher we climbed), terraced into the hillsides and giving the whole place an utterly fairytale appearance.

Graceful women with sacks strapped to their backs by headbands stooped over the bushes just like in the Dilmah ad. Huts in bright colours and a thin coating of black aspergillis appear, clumped in tiny villages every kilometer or so. They nestle around the tea factories, which themselves are identical elegant siblings. children rush out and wave spring onions or agapanthas at us, hoping for a quick sale, and despite the cold (about 16 C), everybody is barefoot.

We eventually arrived at Nuwara Eliya itself - a colourful village of tudor and cape-cod style housing resting in time around a lake and a shaggy racecourse. Many come here for golf, and the greens are velveteen masterpieces - I imagine they have been trimmed with the aid of a magnifying glass and nail clippers. You can read more about the unusual lodging we chose here, and you can see more of my photos of the tea plantations here.

The first day out was back to Kandy. When I had booked the journey, I assumed it was an easy day-trip, and it is, provided you don't have young, spoiled children. Fortunately by the end I was chanelling my inner Buddha, and was able to remain calm in a usually mind-scraping situation. The driver told us it was an hour and a half, but it was over two each way, and so with a 10am start, it left little time in between lunch and the return to enjoy Kandy itself. 

The greatest attraction in Kandy is the massive Temple of the Tooth, which is a UNESCO World Heritage site, and said to hold the Buddha's tooth - the only surviving relic from his cremation. I had read that 1 - it was expensive, and 2 - it was crowded, but I found both to be wrong. We were charged 2000 Rupees as a family (plus a token 100 for the holding of our shoes), and this allowed the four of us and our guide (Hasantha, our driver) to enter, and we were also given a mini CD to play later. That's about $20 all up. We arrived at midday and did not queue, nor did we get shunted around like canned sardines. 

The temple is made up of various buildings, ranging from origins as far back as the thirteenth century, and up to 1998, when the Mahawahalkada was bombed and needed to be replaced. Stepping through the entrance brings one into a haven from the clamour and smells of the busy streets on the exterior, and into an arcade with pic-nic lawns and trees with gnarled roots that could be sculptures. They lead to the Mahawahalkada, and walls and stairs with stunning relief sculpture. As you tiptoe in stocking-feet through to the main complex, you pass baskets of lilies and offering bouquets, which you can buy and present in the temple as your knowledge that life is a beautiful bloom that will eventually wither and die.

The roof is painted in more subtle and earthy tones than many of the Hindu and Buddhist temples I have seen, and I wonder if it has faded over time, or is a reflection of the dyes available when it was first worked on. Further inside are more paintings, carvings in wood, stone and ivory, brass antiques, and other treasures. Of course, we cannot see the tooth, which is protected pass-the-parcel style in 7 golden caskets, but the hall where it lies, and the people who manage to lose themselves in prayer despite the clunky tourists taking photos of them are attraction enough alone for me. I'm not going to take you all the way through, but lets say that your $20 family pass gets you a good hour or two of beauty to appreciate, as the entire complex is available to view.

Outside we found monkeys shagging on the fence railings, an elephant being washed in the moat, and people lighting candles and incense - another way of honouring the cycle of life. The grounds are enormous, and Hasantha took us down the back exit, where we found a market of flowers - purple lillies, orange marigolds and white jasmine, red and green tuk-tuks and Sri Lankan flags colouring the dirt road like a Gauguin painting. Don't miss that - it's free!

We finished with a lunch overlooking the temple from a nearby hill (another sterling recommendation from Hasantha) for which I have promptly forgotten the name - you will just have to book with him and find out for yourself.

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One of his students asked Buddha, "Are you the messiah?"
"No", answered Buddha.
"Then are you a healer?"
"No", Buddha replied.
"Then are you a teacher?" the student persisted.
"No, I am not a teacher."
"Then what are you?" asked the student, exasperated.
"I am awake", Buddha replied.  

You can read more about my own awakening and Hindu blessing in my next post.

This post has been linked up to Budget Travellers Sandbox, who run Travel Photo Thursday - and where you will see a gallery of likewise peaceful photos Of Wat Pa Po, Chang Mai

Is this the dawning of the Age of Aquarius?

Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Bahrain, Yemen, Algeria, Morocco, to some degree Syria, and everybody is wondering about Saudi Arabia.

Ever feel there is something pretty big going on?

When I was growing up, one of my mum's best friends had a son called Justin, and he's always thought outside the very conservative little box we live in. I love Justin, and miss him - he's on the other side of the world, and even when I am back in Australia, sometimes I feel like he's on another planet. One of Justin's greatest talents is sharing a thoughtful and spiritual conversation after hand-crafted beer and quite a lot of good red wine. He's a very intelligent bloke, and I often marvel at all the miscellany he stores in his wonderful brain. One day about 100 years ago, we started talking about a musical I had just seen (Hair) and as usual we found our tangent. This time it was "The Age of Aquarius".

Up until Justin started talking about it, I just thought it was some hippie song lyrics, something to do with the liquid patterns of tie-dye, or the fluid life the musical prescribed, or even just something invented while the composer was on acid. It's nothing of the kind.



We all know that Aquarius is a division of the Zodiac, and we have 12 per year. Historically, the sign of the zodiac we would currently be in would be dictated by which star constellation the Sun happens to be passing through (there are actually 13, and the dates are not what we in the west currently match with each astrological sign, but that's not my story here). But that night, Justin and I were not discussing the year, but the astrological age - dictated by where the Earth's northern zenith points.

These different ages bring with them forces that are accepted by many to be world-changing. I suppose it's much like personal star signs - e.g. if you are a Taurus (like me), you are likely to be stubborn, an appreciator of beauty, and a little over-indulgent - particularly when it comes to food. Aquarius is the idealist, the early adopter, loving, motivating and and truth seeking, but also egotistical, bitter and brash.

Historically, earth-changing events have been blamed on the age they occurred in. Leo, the golden sign (and the one often associated with the sun) coincided with global warming and the end of the ice age. Cancer, a motherly water sign, caused the biblical flood and washed the earth clean so it could nurture a new beginning. Gemini, the ruler of words and speech, came with the introduction of modern script. Taurus, the appreciator of beauty, was at the Earth's northern Zenith when the pyramids were raised and jewelery became more aesthetic - not just a token like a boar-tooth. Aries is thanked for the Iron-Age, and the raising of the first armies of significant power. Pisces is the sign of the zodiac that dreams, is easily swayed, confused, intuitive, secretive and vague. The age has been blamed for the rise of so many different religions, and a blind lust for spirituality, or at least a position in a dream-like world, e.g. heaven.

Now it all gets very complicated and contentious, so I'm not going to tell you if we are in the age of Aquarius or still in Pisces. The age of Aquarius could have started as early as about 1780, or possibly won't start until 2600. What is generally accepted is that each age is approximately 2150 years in length, there is an overlap that can last between 150 and 600-odd years, and whenever or wherever it is, we are experiencing Aquarius's forces of influence right now. We'll let the die-hard astrologers fight over the rest - I'm going to tell you what the Age of Aquarius is supposed to mean for the planet, and you can make up your own mind as to whether it has arrived or not.

So let's take an excerpt from wikipedia:

"Aquarius traditionally "rules" electricity, computers, flight, democracy, freedom, humanitarianism, idealists, modernization, astrology, nervous disorders, rebels and rebellion."

Sound familiar?

So with all the recent news, I did a little hop around Wikipedia, and ended up in all kinds of exciting places, like "Maya 2012", "Rosicrucianism" (whoo-ee there's a da Vinci Code book there!), "New Gallilee", "Anti Christ", "Apocolypse", "Sixth Epoch", "Root Races" (suggesting Tasmanians are half-animal and Semitic people are degenerate in spirituality, the Sixth Root Race will be led by a re-incarnation of Julius Caesar, and the Seventh Root Race will live on Mercury - it's quite a funny read). I also googled "Age of Aquarius", and came up with some pages like this one along with many others written by people who obviously need to recheck the dosage on their medication. "Nostradamus" also had some light to shed - he believed that the Age of Aquarius would herald the upholding of truth in ways never seen before. Unfortunately he also predicted World War 3 in 2012. After all of that I started to feel like the world was ending, but it was OK because I would probably transcend into another dimension before it was all too late....

What I have arrived at is that there are many cultures (and many crazies) who believe that the world goes through stages that are actually (derr) global, and that there are also many cultures that have predicted that the area around the Middle East will be where it all starts to happen. And what will happen will be the beginning of the end of the world. However, "the end of the world" is not Armageddon with flames and dragons and Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is the end of this way of life, and a transcending into another. And before you start thinking that I'm talking about souls floating out of bodies and living in the clouds with virgins, stop and think about how far Human Beings have come. We just don't think like we used to. If you tried to put twenty-first century thought into an 18th century skull, it would probably explode.

And that brings us back to the Middle east and North African region, and the people who are rising up and shouting:

"I am better than this!"

Now going back to the Wikipedia quote referring to the Age of Aquarius:
"electricity, computers, flight, democracy, freedom, humanitarianism, idealists, modernization, astrology, nervous disorders, rebels and rebellion."

For me, this is a spiritual moment, an incredible moment in history, and I am beginning to think there is a great connecting power at work. It's not just one or two people, but thousands, millions even, all thinking exactly the same thought and deciding at exactly the same moment that it's time they brought change.

And what do they want? "democracy, freedom, humanitarianism, and modernization"

And how are the "idealists" achieving their ideals? Through "rebellion."

And in combination with their physical presence, what medium are they using to communicate their message - not just to those who can and will join the fight, but to those who can't or won't? Social Media, a product of "electricity and computers"

"Flight" in my opinion refers to globalization. Flight has made us closer neighbours - and brought countries and people together physically, and therefore allowed travelers to influence and be influenced by the thoughts of locals in a much greater proportion. This in combination with technology and global media has made people on the ground realize that there are other people in the world who are living the way they should also be living, and it makes them fight harder.

And the "nervous disorders"? Well that's just me having my little freak-out over the end of the world.

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I don't profess to be an astrologer - I know very little about the zodiac, except it is the cause of me being slightly overweight. This is just a gathering of information found from fairly good sources on the internet. I'd be very interested to find out what other cultures predict for the future - please let me know if you can shed some starry light.

The Bleak House

Can you guess where I am? I am standing in the shadow of a dark and imposing bluestone mansion, at least I would be in shadow if there were any sun. Mist creeps around me, leaving moisture on every surface, too small to see, but easy enough to feel. The mansion and the inclining garden behind it are not so lucky, the cloud fully envelops them from time to time, cutting off trees and parts of the rooftops, and for all I know, transporting them to another dimension or era.

My sons are untouched by the sinister feel of the place, and while they stamp their be-wellied feet in soggy turf, I shiver. Is it because this is the coldest I have been since I moved to Dubai? Or is it because I feel like I am in an episode of Midsummer Murders or within the pages of The Bleak House?

So take a guess. Highlands of Scotland? Dartmoor among the Baskervilles? The barren Normandy coast? Wrong.



I am 7 degrees north of the equator, at the Hill Club, on the outskirts of Nuwara Eliya (pronounced newerellia). Altitude is around 2000m, mean daily temperature in February is 15C, and despite the fact that it's the dry season, the township sees less than 6 hours of sunlight per day. So while its name translates as "city of light", even the locals call it "little England"

In 1815, the British were handed the colonial mantle of Sri Lanka (or Ceylon, as it was then) by the Dutch, who had in turn taken it over from the Portuguese. But the British were the first to delve deeper in the the mountainous central region, then named Kandy after it's capital city. They planted coffee and failed, then tea to great success, and left their footprint everywhere, not least at the hotel where we have taken up residence for three days.

If you go onto Trip Advisor and read the reviews for the Hill Club, you will not stay there. "Dirty", "Stuffy", "Unkempt", "Outdated colonial bigotry" are some of the comments that come up. And, it's true. The Hill Club is a pompous, old-monied, balding man in tweed with velour elbow patches and gravy dribbled on his jodhpurs. And....

Booking was a disaster - we booked two rooms months ago on otel.com, and only days ago, discovered that everyone had ignored my four requests for adjoining rooms "because of our young children", and suddenly we found that we could not stay there because children under 5 were not allowed in the club. After about 15 emails and two international phone calls, they finally managed to fit us in a Family suite in the "Chalet". We had also booked a room for our Sri Lankan Nanny (who joined us from Dubai), and were told at the last minute that she could not stay at the club because she was Sri Lankan (???!!!) And....

The rooms are cold, and only supplied with a one-bar heater. The carpet is worn and even ripped in places. They only supply our room with three towels despite the fact that obviously we are a family of four, in a four-bed room. Because of our three year old son, we are banned from dining in the club, instead having to take our meals in the Chalet. The service is slow beyond compare.

But....

Our booking company Red Dot Tours, stepped in just before we arrived and handled everything, putting otel.com and the Hill Club management to shame, even though I had stupidly booked through another company and they made no commission off our stay there.

The Hill Club apologize obsequiously (quite fun to watch, really) for the inability to house Mary, and quickly arrange a room for her at an almost sickly sweet B and B called Glendower, just around the corner.

The rooms are enormous, the Chalet charming, and there is a dining room with a sofa and TV and over 1000 free DVDs to choose from. Given that it is a family area, noise and mess flourish. Two butlers are to serve just our family for the duration, bringing us Tanquerays at sundown, silver-serving us dinner on the crispest of white linen, gently warming our marmalade for breakfast, and even putting velour-covered hot water bottles in our beds as we finish our dessert. How could you NOT like a hot water bottle?

The gardens are imaculate. Hedgerows, fucias, velvet lawns, pristine vegetable gardens, winding flagstone paths, enchantingly crumbing tennis courts, ancient conifers, smiling security guards with feathers in their caps, picket fencelines...And everywhere secret nooks with table and chair, perfectly positioned to view the garden and the pages of a great novel.

And the Clubhouse... The outside is all blue-stone and griffin crests, and the inside is a shrine to fading colonialism. The telephones still have dials on them, mahogany and teak abounds, de-bodied elk and boar stare menacingly down through glass eyes. First a rest in the reading room to eat warmed cashew nuts and sip Kir while thumbing the pages of back issues of the New Yorker. Next, the serpentine bar for a Bloody Mary - and although I cannot imagine the likes of Somerset Maughn slumped over it dreaming of something epically prosetic, I do see the need to compose something in the stuffy grandeur of this room. Maybe a poem? Or at least a condescending letter to imaginary children in a hoity toity boarding school back in the old country (Or maybe a blog post...) After, a Cognac in the Billiard room, where it is a struggle to reach half the shots due to the gargantuan table, and the staff stand by to compliment your shots and give the occasional golf-clap.

I find the need to start speaking with a lisp on my "th" sounds and a plum in my mouth, and the persona arriving upon me also demands a horseriding gait and a problem with gin and tonics. We snigger at the place, but secretly enjoy the old-school experience. We roll our eyes at the poor service, but marvel at the effort. We stumble back down the gently sloping lawn to the Chalet to relieve Mary of her babysitting duty and cuddle up with the kids in bunk beds with "hot botties" and then retiring to our own bed after sleep has taken them, dream that we are part of the British East India Company, pioneers in this mysterious outpost, and in on one of the greatest secrets in the world.

-----------------------------

My advice for anyone booking in Sri Lanka, use a booking company. It is not Europe, or even Thailand. You will need a driver to navigate the treacherous and unsignposted roads, and someone who speaks the language to sort out the inevitable issues. Tourism is only just restarting after years of war and a Tsunami, and you will not find many large hotel chains out of Colombo, but instead guesthouses and B & Bs and boutique hotels. They take weeks to respond to emails, if at all, and if in fact they even have an email address. The images on the websites are often misleading, and you may come across hidden rules such as we did at the Hill Club (which is in fact a "club" and not a hotel). Instead, call a booking agency, and double-check their prices with hotel booking engines, and bargain if they try to overcharge you. I would recommend Red Dot Tours to anybody (Jonah was my email contact, and Hasantha was our driver).

There are other placed to stay in the Nuwara Eliya area if "old-and-crusty" is not your cup of ceylon-tea (personally I kind of like it). We had a lovely dinner at the Grand Hotel, and it is a shinier and less squeaky wheel than the Hill Club. We have been told the Tea Factory is the best in the area, but is quite some distance out of town. Glendower was also very sweet, and had the most incredible mahogany bar I would have liked to warm my throat in if there had been time (although Mary's room did smell a bit damp and musty). 

click on the names above to link to the pages.

I remember yesterday...

Well, I'm home.

I'm sitting in my back yard in that surreal passage of time where holiday has not been over for long enough to transport your astral body back to ground zero. But very quickly, vacation-mode is slipping away, in converse proportion to the headache creeping in. An early start (5am), a flight with children (particularly the three year old, who's visa page nearly got torn out by an irate mother who wanted him deported - for a moment anyway), an horrendous long-weekend immigration queue that developed Indian queue proportions at one stage (1 person deep but 50 wide), and battling with epic proportions of absurdly shaped luggage including the standard 10 bottle in 10 plastic bag duty free wine haul (obligatory in dubai) and a 7ft surfboard in an 8 ft bag, and then of course said three year old who refused to walk and yet squirmed like a chocolate covered 15kg mongoose while carried. Marhaba Waltons.

But this time yesterday...



I was sitting in Somerset Maugham's old chair at the Galle Face Hotel, sipping on a kir royale. The age-worn tessellated checkerboard tiles warmed by the fading Colombo sun, the antique teak furniture creaking with the tales of the colonial derrieres that had once held their place, waiters stiffly standing on the sidelines dressed like pursers on the QE2 maiden voyage, children blissfully quiet due to modern technology (iPad and iPhone) and icy Shirly Temples, the television out of place yet forgivable, for it showed recent cricket highlights interspersed with tourism shots of the tea plantations and southern beaches. A rare moment to talk with Husband and reflect on life, but all we could do was look at each other, smile in that gaga way, sigh, and then look back over the gently rolling surf.

Oh yes, it feels very different now. I suppose still have the option of a twilight dip, but without the formally attired waiter bringing me Campari, the humidity right on the edge of pleasant and really-must-get-in-the-water state, the tanned and non-child-encumbered bodies lying on banana lounges unwittingly about to be harassed by the noise and movement of my rowdy brood. (Forgive me - it's years of having people like them sneer at me on aircraft when I am obviously in need of assistance with my children that have turned me to the dark side.) It's just not the same.

Rooms at the Galle Face Hotel are about the size of a small tennis court. They are in almost original condition, including the bathrooms, but are clean and like many parts of Sri Lanka, make the guest imagine for a moment they are royalty in a bygone era. The floors are polished smooth by the wear of feet over the last century, a massive mahogany wardrobe looms over my suitcase full of dirty clothes, and almost begs to be stocked with taffeta ball gowns and and in the corner stands a dressing table that really requires a pearl-backed hairbrush, a powder puff of antique proportions, and a jewelery box full of marcasite and jet.

The Galle Face Hotel is the old English Baron of Colombo. It was built in 1864, and sits at the end of the Galle Face Green, a five hectare expanse of lawn and dirt that is supposed to contain lawn on the edge of the Indian ocean. In the evening, it comes alive with market stalls selling the most incredible looking food - pancakes with trapped whole prawns that are eaten head and all, enormous flaky paratha-style bread, whole wok-fried soft-shelled crabs, and nuclear-coloured candy corn for the kids - all items loaded with a non-westerner amount of chilli. Beside me as I walked, vendors chased me to touch Goldilock's platinum curls, and tried to sell me views at dancing monkeys or cobras, and blasted my ears with kiddy-techno from the ice-cream carts. Below me muslim girls frolicked in full garb in the waves, and boys looked on in awe. Above me sailed one thousand and one vibrant kites that can be bought for less than $4 a piece, and on the lawns, mats were laid with miscellaneous florescent coloured vibrating, flashing and squeaking Chinese crap that the children insisted we buy instead of the stunning kites.

Colombo was a one day visit at the end of a journey both physical and spiritual around Sri Lanka (I will blog more about it in coming days.) If we had stayed longer, I would have visited Pettah market, and travelled further south to the Mount Lavinia Hotel, but apart from that, there is little but the Galle Face to keep you there. I had hoped Colombo would be a rambling colonial relic like Hanoi or Phnom Penh, but years of civil war and other drains on city funds have meant that only a handful of the best buildings have survived as anything but a blackened mess. In fact, I considered that some of the streets of Colombo would be an appropriate set for movies such as Oliver Twist, or Les Miserables - they appear entirely untouched (except by the monsoon) since the exit of Colonial British power - in fact, probably since before then.

It's not that Colombo is a bad place - like all cities, one cannot expect to know it in a moment, and time must be taken to scratch the surface to find the gold beneath the grit, however, the rest of Sri Lanka is so completely awe-inspiring, that staying in Colombo for too long will sacrifice the time in better places, such as Unawatuna and Nuwara Eliya. Over the next few posts I will talk more about my travels - I truly think you all need to know how wonderful Sri Lanka is, and hope you all have the opportunity to go there.

Visit the Galle Face Hotel website here

Kitchen Culture

In a couple of months, I will be sharing my three year anniversary with Dubai. I am so happy I am still here, what a wonderful place to live. And now, I will be accepted as a real expat - for those that have been here for a little longer know, that if you make it past two years, the place has your heart, and you will be here for five years, ten, or maybe even the rest of your life. But a little confession before I go on - until last week, I had never joined the cultural gig down at the Sheikh Mohammad Centre for Cultural Understanding. I know, atrocious! So on Wednesday morning at 9:50, I bombasted my beast of a 4WD past all others to grab the last remaining carpark at Bastakiya, and re-entered my favourite little suburban nook in Dubai to find out all about Emiratis.

In case you haven't been to, or heard about Bastakiya, it is a tiny suburb that holds the last remaining architecture of Dubai's recent history. It was cordoned off and preserved by (I believe) the UAE Architectural society, and the buildings have been restored faithfully and lovingly. It is a maze of ochre walls, wind towers, crazy paving, modern art, carved cedar doors, and is a cool, quiet step away from modern Dubai. The building I entered has been set aside by ruler of Dubai, Sheikh Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, and now gives lessons in the way of breakfasts and lunches and informal chats in a majlis - sharing the history and culture with people just like me.



The courtyard is cool and whitewashed, with the sun peeking just over the upper walls and being caught in the cut-out stonework, embellishing the blank spaces with lacy patterns. The central floor laid with a mammoth red carpet and camel-wool majlis cushions, and the centrepiece - three massive covered cauldrons, bowls of dates and pretty coffee pots and tiny crystal or porcelain glasses. With my tummy rumbling, I counted every minute past 10am, the official starting time.

Finally Nasif claps his hands together and says "Hello, Welcome!... Has anybody been here before?....No?....Ah, good! You are all fresh! I can mess with you. Ha Ha Ha" He sits down with a smile and his confident eyes make firm contact with each spectator separately. He adjusts his white ghutrah, first lifting it a little at the ears, then throwing the tails over his shoulder. As he begins, Yusif comes around with the coffee, pouring the lightly couloured, cardamom scented Yemeni blend into tiny cups - only half full, so we don't burn our fingers. We are told we can ask anything we like - nothing is taboo, except preceding a question with the phrase "Sorry, I know this is a stupid question, but..."

One of the visitors has brought a baby - about a year old, and unburdened with adult abashment, she sets a path for the hidden feast. Najim's booming voice scares her off while his smile and funny face make her giggle, and then he tells us he has a two year old, his seventh child. "Only one wife," he says, "And I will tell you more about her...", chuckling to himself, waving a finger and shaking his head. From Chicago. One year older than him. Divorcee. He pretended to be his mother upon hearing of the engagement, wringing his hands, grimacing, then slapping both palms over his face while wailing in a high-pitched voice "Son, you will make me die!!!" I imagine how much he must love her to put his relationship with his Mother to the test. He tells us that only 12% of married men have more than one wife, and only 2% more than two. It is more than just the man's choice - it is about income, social standing, the likelihood of war, and how strong the man's constitution is - for many, one wife is more than enough, and Nasif happily has his hands full.

As we are presented with more coffee and dried dates from Ras al Khamah, he relates the history of the bedouin in relation to dates. The body can be entirely sustained on Dates and water for quite some time - they are high in carbohyrates, fibre, magnesium, potassium and, as is rare for fruits, even contain iron. They keep well, and were the staple of the caravan trade. In the months-long treks over the desert, they would even retain the pits, which could be ground and fed to the animals, or even used in a tea-like concoction.

Not before time, the food is served. Diabetics and carb concious, you may not want to read the following. Nahee - a dish of chickpeas - boiled, and flavoured lightly with sugar, saffron and chillies are accompanied by Khameer bread - more than the standard khubz, this puffy flat bread has threads of saffron colouring it, and has been toasted and glazed and topped with sesame seeds. Next is Balaleet, sweet white and brown vermicelli noodles with small pieces of omelet and the fragrant taste of saffron and cardamom. At the end are Luganet - fried dough balls somewhat like donuts. In scattered smaller bowls are our toppings - cream cheese and sticky, drippy, deliciously molasses-like date honey.

While I lick my fingers and try not to let the chickpeas roll off my plate, Nasif bares the historic soul of his people, and links it to the things that isolate them so much from western culture, their dress, the issues with women's rights, religion and spirit. He reminds us that the UAE has never been colonised as such - when the British left the "Protectorate" (as distinct from a colony) in 1971, they did not leave behind any schools, hospitals, or even many British people for that matter, and thus their footprint on the region had been less significant than it was in places like India and the US. Nasif reminds us that 100 years ago, British women showing an ankle were considered risque, and the equivalent to the industrial revolution only happened in Dubai with the discovery of oil in 1966.

So this product that the west so desires has in turn injected the Emirati people into western culture, and they live with us, whether they like it or not. But Nasif likes it. Many, he says, like it. However that does not mean they are ready to drop their history and become white trash. We talked about Emirati women, abayas and hijabs and although he does mention religion and modesty, he says the dress is significant more in a historical sense - cover from the harsh sun, protection from sand storms, and it even has roots in providing anonymity to royalty. (I am in the process of interviewing an acquaintance to get the female side of the story, so more in a following post.) After all, he says, if he goes out in his traditional dress, everyone thinks he is a Sheikh! His assistant Yunis is dressed in brown, and Nasif tells him he is not cool - white is what it's all about. And I have to admit - I love Arabic traditional dress, particularly on the men. They do look like princes, with their olive skin, piercing eyes and gleaming white robes. I have a particular liking for the more casual tying of the gutrah without the agal, and a pair of mirror aviators, preferably accompanied by an orange Lamborghini. Hmm, I digress....

We discuss the nature of the Emirati, and how they have changed in the last few decades. It used to be that if you remarked favourably on an Emirati's (material) possession, he or she would often hand it over as a gift.  Nasif says regrettably this has changed, because they are running out of Rolexes. There had been times when he thinks the people may have had their natures taken advantage of, and he says this has made them more wary of strangers, and less generous with gifts. But the feeling of "Arabian hospitality" is still alive, and he doesn't need to tell me that - I have experienced it first hand (see the wedding), more than once. I wonder, if the people are such open and giving characters, why are they over there, and the rest of us over here, so to speak. Nasif believes it is purely demographical - the portion of the total population that is made up of locals rests well under 20%. I do question however if this is the case for all.

And so I put out the call - I WANT EMIRATI FRIENDS! You might however have to put up with the occasional: "Sorry, I know this is a stupid question, but..." But I will welcome you into my culture, and tell you all about shrimps, barbies, and Kylie Minogue, hopefully in the candid and humorous method that Nasif has mastered.

The breakfast is 60 dirhams, and held every Monday & Wednesday morning at 10:00am and Lunch is every Sunday & Tuesday afternoon at 1:00pm. There are other tours and activities to try on the website: For more information, click here, or call  04-353-6666







 

Six degrees of digital separation

link to Facebook page

Last night I was watching Al Jazeera International, and it started to sound like Hosni Mubarak had finally resigned. Instead of breaking out the champagne, I calmly picked up my iPhone and verified facts with my friends on Twitter. Sure enough, he had not stepped down as president, and Al Jazeera also confirmed this several minutes later.

As I might have stated in previous posts, I am a thirty something very vanilla (ok with a dash of cinnamon) expat Australian housewife. I do not have a single Egyptian friend (not by choice). I have nothing to do with Egypt. I even wrote a post recently caning Cairo, although in my defense, the issues I had with it could easily be blamed on the government not the people. So how can I know what people are doing and saying in Tahrir Square almost before it happens?

Because when six degrees of separation is digital, there is NO physical separation - my friends, their friends, and the rest of the world live between the tip of my finger and the screen of my iPhone. I am living the revolution through people like @sandmonkey, @waelabbas and @zeinobia without actually even following them - I see their tweets retweeted (RT) by those I do follow, and the tweets I find interesting, I can "RT" myself. I was there when the crowds were thickest, when rocks started flying, and when sandmonkey got arrested. It's hard not to feel involved, and even harder not to form an opinion. And sometimes as I have lain in bed doing my last nightly flick through the recent tweets, I have found myself in tears, and my ragged soul has dragged me to my knees to pray for them to receive what I take for granted.



I ask myself - would I know or even care so much if I wasn't on Twitter, or even living in the region? I accept that because I follow several people in Dubai, some of them are from the Gulf and greater Arabian region, and so therefore there is a strong weighting on issues that occur here. I do not imagine that many of my friends back in Melbourne would have got into the Egyptian loop so quickly. Or would they?


As distinct from Facebook, subjects on Twitter are more accessable. Sure, anyone can load a Facebook page, they can make it a public one, and then anyone can access it, you can even write on the "Wall" if you "Like" the page. However, Twitter can bring any topic into any conversation with just a hash-tag (#). Whether you like it or not, if you look down your Twitter updates list today, you will find either #Egypt, or #Jan25 in there. And all you have to do to find out what everybody in the world is saying about it is click on it, and all you have to do to join the conversation is to add it in your own message. This links you not only with your friends or followers, but EVERYONE on Twitter who has hash-tagged that topic.

This week the # is a serious one, but assuming this will be over soon, we will again find things like #FF (follow Friday), #UAEWeather, #motherinlaw and #spongebob. And I do hope it is over soon, but I can't see that happening in a hurry. This is a different revolution. It is not 100% physical, and this changes everything. People will not tire - they will leave Tahrir Square to go home and rest, but they will keep up with events via the social networks, and return recharged, because the voice that they hear is not getting any softer - only now are we beginning to see the magnitude of the support behind the people on the ground, and this support, though digital, will continue to fuel them. I feel doubly for these people, because they will be pushed harder than any other revolutionaries - the whole world is watching, even 14 year old American Justin Beiber fans.

The social networks have made this a world-wide revolution, not just one for the Egyptian people, and many other countries are rising up, showing not only their support for Egypt, but their support for the ideals of this brave crowd of people, and the common desire for a better life, where everybody has a voice. This started in Tunisia, and is only getting bigger - there have been ripples reaching Jordan, Yemen, Syria, and there is even talk of what may happen in Saudi Arabia. Because with the increase in the use of social networks, everybody can have a voice, and the paths to silence us are fewer. (but don't say that to @mark248am regarding #BenihanaKUW)

PS.
Some tips from the one who has learned the hard way:

The start to using Twitter can be a slow one if you approach it like Facebook. Firstly, this is not about "friends", but about "followers", and they are entirely different things. Saying that, secondly, Twitter is not about followers, it's about following - for the start, anyway. And sure, you follow a few people, and they follow you back, and then you get some spammers, then some porn seekers, and eventually you find that you have some legitimate people who actually read what you say. In fact, if you have a website, sometimes they even go to it to find out what you can say in more than 140 characters (probably to their great disappointment in many cases). But the wonderful thing about Twitter is the connectivity to the rest of the world. Join in and feel the pulse of humanity.

PPS.

I don't work for Twitter

Flashbacks at Frankie's

I have just been transported back to Melbourne, circa 1995. I am sitting on plush ribbed velvet in a jockey-owned restaurant. There is deep red carpet, white linen, a balsamic/olive oil combo bottle, and a waitress looming over me with a titanic-sized pepper mill. But then again, if it was 1995 Melbourne, she would be slathered in uppity attitude, yet winking suggestively while leaning in close to whisper: "would you like a grind?"... Dubai waitresses really have NO idea how to get a good tip.

Melbournites know they are world fashion leaders (forget Paris, New York, Milan, etc.). The rest of the planet is so far behind that by the time they have caught up, Melbourne has moved two steps ahead, and in the case of Dubai, about 45. I'm not talking about clothing- Melbournites are part Goth, part Tree-hugger, part Vivienne Westwood on acid - pale skinned, hairy legs under paisley tights, converse boots, novelty handbags and otherwise an entirely black ensemble is pretty much the norm (male or female). No, when I say "Fashion Leaders" I'm talking about culture and habits, architecture and cuisine.



Melbourne released the chains of difficult and expensive liquor licensing somewhere the early 1990s, and as a result boutique cafes, bars and restaurants opened up nearly every 10 meters. Probably half of them were owned, managed and designed by people under 30, and suddenly Melbourne had a chic and self-sustaining bar culture that rivalled anywhere in Europe. (Yes, the industry was mainly propped up by the bar workers themselves)

The Croft Institute - my old haunt

We were drinking $15 Australian Viognier before the US  or UK had even figured out it was that amazing grape variety that could be found in astronomically priced Condreiu. We were muddling ginger and lime for Muddy Moscow Mules while New York still sipped tired Cosmopolitans. We invented the babychino, house-smoked our salmon, went out on dates for breakfast, re-introduced flocked wallpaper, cantilevered rooftop swimming pools, cordoned off large tracts for inner-city communal veggie gardens, threw epic fringe festivals, protested and beat the infiltration of poker machines in defense of the garage band (at least for a while) and named our lane-ways after iconic Aussie rock bands, all while Londoners were still eating cheese cubes and pimento olives at dining-room cocktail parties, or listening to a jukebox and getting chucked out of dark and smelly pubs at midnight.

So when I sit back in this slightly phallic chair and cast my eye over what used to be fashionable in Melbourne, I wonder for a moment why the place is so packed. But there's no mystery - it was fashionable in Melbourne because the formula works, as does the food (more on that shortly). The reason Melbourne moved on was because everybody was doing it, and with all fashion, once it is commonplace, it's tired. But here in Dubai, I haven't found similar. Not commonplace = not tired = still workable. I mean who doesn't like a comfortable restaurant with a busy atmosphere serving decent Italian food?

The place is not perfect - the chairs are a little rude-looking as mentioned, and the bench seating has a wave-shaped back rest, which reduces depth in places and gets the gripe of the over-bottomed like me. The staff at the small prep area are wearing red bandanas and look like sushi chefs (it's an Italian restaurant). I found the menu a little limiting - most of the food is quite rich, and I struggled to select. When booking we were restricted to an out by 9:30 or in at 9:30 sitting, not quite what I had expected for a Marco Pierre White restaurant.

Saying that, The food I receive is flawless. Not stupendously good, not unique, not groundbreaking, but flawless in the sense that I can find nothing wrong with it. The beef for my carpaccio is super-fine, deep red with very little marbling, non-stringy, and simply accompanied but needing little else. The risotto al dente and oozing happily in my wide soup plate, just the way I like it; the way all risotto should be if prepared to order. The winelist is not great, but adequate, and although not cheap, also not ridiculous, and there are enough options so we could sip by the glass rather than splitting a bottle.

Service is swift and methodical. The floor is managed well, with waiters, runners and bar staff all doing what they are supposed to do in a perfect amount of time. Drinks arrive cold, and food hot. No flair, but I'd prefer my drink in three minutes if the alternative is ten minutes with a lap-dance. This efficient is service is very rare for Dubai, and so a happy surprise for me (I am also known as "She who cannot be pleased" by my husband).

Suddenly I am finished, and we are surprised to see that the clock reads only 8:45. Plenty of time for dessert, but as with two courses waiting in line to be pushed down and processed, we opt for a digestive. It was good to see that they have the crew capability to get you in and out in two hours - it usually takes that long to get coffee and cake in Dubai - and so I forgive the restrictive timing.

The bill arrives when asked, and considering began with champagne, it seems cheap. Then we realise they hadn't added the champagne. We "ummm..." and "ahhhh..." a little before admitting it to the waitress, and she both apologizes and thanks us for our honesty. Then she returns with another charging for only one glass instead of the two we had drunk, but as my husband so eloquently puts it, "I'm all for honesty, but I'm not going to wipe their bums for them."

The other great pleasure is to see that although this restaurant is over two years old, it is still succeeding. Sure, it's brash, formulaic, and is booking system shows an enormous amount of egotism, but I would most definitely return, just as it seems everybody else does. Especially as long as they are giving out free glasses of Moët. Because it reminds me of home, when I was young and beautiful and waiting tables with naughty-looking monster pepper grinders. But this time I am on the receiving end, and I like it. And waiters, if you want some lessons in "sassy", you know who to call...

---------------------------
Frankie's is at Oasis Tower, facing the beach at JBR.
Tel: 04- 399 4311
http://www.rmalhospitality.com/frankies.asp