Once You Go Black...

If by chance you happen to be reading this blog on your BlackBerry, it’s very likely that you’re going to identify with what you’re about to read. Or what’s more likely is the red LED at the top of your screen is about to start flashing and distract you into checking you work email/hotmail/facebook/twitter/BlackBerry chat functions, which means you will never actually finish reading this. Yes, that’s definitely more likely.

Despite years of pitifully looking on at the scores of CrackBerry addicts that adorn Dubai’s malls, clubs and bars, I’m afraid to say I have become one. I recently found myself to be the proud owner of a BlackBerry Curve, since some inconsiderate, drunk pervert spilt his drink all over my beloved Swarovski encrusted Nokia E71 in a bar last week (yes, you read right – Swarovski encrusted. I’ve officially become one of ‘those’ Dubaians). I helplessly looked on as my pride and joy drowned in a Long Island Ice Tea, unable to jump in and save it on time. Despite several resuscitation attempts, she was gone. The lights were on, but there was definitely no one at home.

As I mourned my loss, a good friend of mine came to comfort me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will arrange to fix this one and you can have my BlackBerry until I do.” Having a spare phone and that spare phone being no less than a BlackBerry, is something that will probably baffle those of you who are reading back home in the UK. But this is Dubai. Everyone has several phones, particularly the locals who change their gadgets more than they change their kandoras. My friend in question was one such local. So off we went in the middle of the night to a palace (yes, a palace) to collect my replacement phone.

So once I got home that night, I unpacked my new arrival and tried to make sense of all the buttons and functions. At first, I had no idea what the fuss was about. The keyboard was tough to use, the layout was boring and without unlimited internet access the device seemed like an over glorified piece of plastic. An expensive one at that. I lustfully thought of my trusty Nokia E71 and everything we’d been through together: regretful drunkard text messages at 3.10am, shouting matches and awkward phone calls – my phone had been through it all with me. But all this nostalgia was about to dissipate fast.

Speaking to another one of my friends, I found out that Etisalat (a telecommunications provider here in the UAE) currently has a deal on offer – one month’s free internet access for BlackBerrys, no strings attached. Being completely and shamelessly addicted to Facebook, I relished the idea of being able to stalk people’s profiles while on the move. So I decided to give the offer a whirl and see what this bad boy could really do.

Once the set-up was complete (a simple process that entailed me sending one text message), the useless and expensive piece of plastic miraculously came alive. At the touch of a few buttons, I suddenly had instant access to personal email, work email, Facebook, MSN and BlackBerry Messenger. I finally understood what a ‘PIN’ was and was scrambling to find out which of my friends were fellow BB users.

All of a sudden my phone was pinging every five minutes. Sure enough I had a load of rubbish to contend with, but spam text messages, emails that entailed me actually doing some work and boring event invites aside, I found myself enjoying being able to access all my accounts at any time. I soon became hooked on the high of getting a new notification. I found myself updating my Facebook status even more than usual (a task I thought was impossible) and wanting to tell the world about every detail of my life (despite the fact I know no one gives a flying crap whether I’m drunk – again).

I’m embarrassed to admit that things got worse. I soon found myself becoming ‘one of those’ BlackBerry users. You know, the ones who parade their phone with the same pride a male gorilla parades its nuts and who always have their phones out on the table in a restaurant/coffee shop, just to prove to the world how important they are. Those who just have to check their phone the minute it pings and gleefully give anyone who owns anything other than a BB the look of pity. Bless, you only have a Samsung.

Like with any great relationship, however, the BlackBerry and I went through a sticky patch. Instant access to your work emails at the weekend is nothing less than masochistic. You may as well willingly chain yourself to your desk and offer to work seven days a week at no extra cost. And no matter how much you try not to check your inbox, the flashing red light will bug you and taunt you until you have lost the will to live and give in, only to find you’ve been given a crap assignment to do, or that the important material that you were waiting for from a PR isn’t actually ever going to make it to you. In one click of a button, your weekend is ruined and you find yourself wanting to lob Mr BB onto Sheikh Zayed road and watch as it’s smashed into smithereens. By having instant access to my work emails, I found myself having instant access to the feeling of dread you get back in the UK when a load of bills drop through the letter box, only this charged up version was not limited to once a day.

I have now had the BlackBerry for just over a week and I still haven’t heard about the fate of my E71. I guiltily have to admit, however, that despite the love I have for my old phone, I think I will be really upset the day I have to give BB up. I am already considering buying my very own BB, as the thought of going cold turkey and not having instant access to Facebook et al is now horrifying to me. Yes, despite the nuisance of having to deal with a work emails at the weekend, I still think that having the ability to check people’s status updates while stuck in yet another traffic jam outweighs the disadvantage. So, OK, maybe I have sold out just a little bit by giving in to the charm of the BB. But the truth is, once you go Black, you really can’t go back.

Wake Me Up When January Ends

I have always hated January. The post-Christmas anti-climax coupled with those extra pounds you piled on from all that festive eating and drinking lead you to smack back down to earth with a great big wallop, and suddenly all that was magical and wonderful feels very grey. Despite the fact my hearty post-Christmas dinner rear-end cushions most of the blow, I still find January bloody hurts.

For one, everyone is broke. Now that there is a recession this is felt ten fold. All those fools who spent Christmas Eve panic buying iPhones and Guitar Hero version 8327 will have already had their credit card bill through the letter box and sent it straight to the shredder in denial (No, you couldn’t afford it then and you certainly can’t afford it now). Suddenly those ‘oh, go on, it’s Christmas’ drunkard purchases that were made in a haze at 10.56pm at your local Wetherspoon don’t seem so wise. Penny pinching is very much the theme of January and that spreads over into all areas of life. We frequently have ‘leftovers’ for dinner and we ‘make do’ with 10 pints instead of 15.

Another reality that sets in during January is how much of a big fat failure you really are. You spent most of the end of December saying how 2010 would be your year. You made a list of the things you were going to achieve: better job, better ass, better bank balance. Everything seems possible and I put this down to December’s excessive alcohol consumption. Sure, everyone feels they can be as rich and successful as Bill Gates and as beautiful as Beyoncé after one too many sherberts. Even those lists you lovingly wrote that detailed how you were going to achieve all of this made it look possible. Then January comes. The job sites are bare and all you want to eat are deep fried Mars bars. The possible is made very much impossible. I call this the January effect.

When I lived in the UK I put a lot of the unhealthy resentment I have for January down to the weather. Anyone who has lived in the UK knows that the weather is more depressing than sitting through a New Labour conference. January in the UK generally looks like one big grey ball. You look outside and you can’t tell where the grey begins and where it ends. Every day since September you’ve had Christmas tree baubles and lights shoved down your throat by the High Street chains and while this may have seemed grim at the time, at least it added colour to the landscape. All of a sudden you are wishing that the Christmas lights were left up all year around to brighten your spirits. That man from Wiltshire who celebrates Christmas every day of the year isn’t so crazy after all – he was on to something.

It is also generally freezing cold and wet. Rain, rain and more rain. The bad weather means you are confined indoors, which means that any chances you had of burning off those extra post-Christmas pounds are zero to none – NO one wants to eat salad when there is a blizzard outside to contest with. Instead you fry everything, add a load of stodge, and cover it all with mounds of gravy and butter.

I genuinely thought that by moving to Dubai, some of my January-orientated hate would be alleviated. For one, at least the sun is always shinning. If you are a lady it is also still possible to be as drunk as you were in December thanks to those wonderful things called Ladies Nights. However, the anti-climax is still hard to shake off. The job sites are bare, my next holiday is months off and my bank balance looks like it’s been hacked by Alistair Darling. I can’t afford to go away when all I want to do is escape reality. The end of the year is supposed to herald new beginnings, yet everything is the bloody same. To top this all off, any hope I had of some entertainment has dissipated, as my pre-Christmas fling has disappeared into the ether; quite possibly, I suspect, another victim of the January blues.

I have therefore decided there is no trying to dress January up to be something that it isn’t. That would be like trying to transform Skegness into Miami. The conclusion is, this month has always been miserable and will continue to be miserable in the future. It is best to write it off and hope things will be better in February. That way you save yourself the disappointment when nothing materialises.

Therefore, I am off to hibernate. Remember to wake me up when January ends.

Bounce Off

So, let me get this straight…

In Dubai nightclubs it’s ok for a grown man in his thirties to march up to a woman who is minding her own business and tell her to f*ck off, but it’s not ok to take your shoes off when dancing on a podium?

This was the case in Elegante on Friday night. There I was, doing my best Beyonce impression (don’t knock it, I’ve at least got the thighs down to tee), when this burly bouncer of 6 foot 4 completely ruined my style by pulling on my shorts. I looked down to see him pointing at my shoes. Or rather, the lack of.

“Do you want me to fall down,” I yelled.

It was a case of ‘tell it to the hand’ because girlfriend really wasn’t listening. Shoes had to come back on. I didn’t realise that in addition to alcohol and premarital sex, walking around bare foot had also become illegal in the UAE. I must have missed that memo from Sheikh Mo.

So I carried on with my best Beyonce impression, only this time I was trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed (hence, me, plus two), on four inch stilettos. You don’t need to be a mathematician to know that’s one dodgy formula.

Five minutes later, a random oaf decided to join my friend and I on the podium. He mouthed something along the lines of f*ck off to her (out of nowhere. This is how men like to court in Dubai), to which my natural bull to red rag reaction was to yell who the hell do you think you are (while trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed, on four inch stilettos).

We grabbed the same bouncer who had so heroically upheld the law on shoes and podiums five minutes earlier, to which we had no response. It seems that it’s perfectly acceptable to tell a girl you’ve never met before to f*ck off. Bare feet on a podium however, Christ, the scandal, call the popos before there’s an upheaval.

It seems that bouncers in Dubai have a problem with women. It’s not just Elegante. I’ve been spoken to like I’m a Russian whore a million and one times (I’m Western and I wear low cut tops. I clearly therefore must perform tricks to earn my dirhams), and when I’ve tried to get a bouncer to intervene, they look at me like I’m the one with the problem.

We eventually were told to get down off the podium, because we wouldn’t accept free drinks from some perverts that were sat on the table beneath us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to share vodka with aging, receding hair-lined, married Lebanese men. We clearly need our eyes testing.

The lesson learnt? Bouncers in Dubai are misogynist bare feet haters and most men in Dubai are (I will let you guess what word I was going to use here). I would say it was never to go to Elegante anymore, but I like the music too much.

A City On Heat

I’ve only been here on and off for about a year, but one of the things that struck me very early on is how much more, well, forward men are.

In any one given night out, the average Dubai gal will pick up numerous business cards, telephone numbers, stalkers and propositions for a bit of hot loving in the desert, on a camel, or under Garhoud Bridge. The amount of times I’ve opened my purse in the morning to find various business cards flying out at me are uncountable. Ahmed, Mohammed, James, Thierry, Justin etc etc. And yes, most of the time I’m sat asking Ahmed? Ahmed who?!

Now, this isn’t an excuse for me to sit and boast about my admirers (trust me, some of them are nothing to boast about). ANY girl living in Dubai (single, or otherwise-makes no difference even if you’re wearing a wedding ring) will find the same thing. The guys are persistent, pushy and will stop at nothing to get a chance with you. A combination of the fact that men outnumber women by about 3 to 1, desert heat, and ex-pat loneliness seem to send men wild out here. (well, more wild than normal)

One particular French guy that I met in Boudoir one night stands out in my mind. About five minutes before leaving the bar, I got talking to him through my free cocktail haze. We exchanged numbers, and I left.

Half an hour later, I already had a missed call from the guy. I ignored it, I was too busy dancing. The next day I woke up to three missed calls and a text message ‘Good morning beautiful’. At this stage I couldn’t even remember what the guy looked like, let alone anything else.

He persistently text every day for about a week asking what I was up to. By the seventh day I caved and sent a message back apologising, that I’d been really busy and maybe we could arrange something in the future. My bad, I know, but I hate being impolite!

About a week later I got a rather annoyed text from him. It was something along the lines of ‘hello Miss I’m so overbooked all the time, guessing you’re too important to meet me’. Now I don’t have many experiences with French guys, so I don’t know whether they think being ignored is a good thing. Brits tend to get the hint when they are ignored…well Brits living in Britain that is. It seems that once guys pass Dubai immigration, their crotch area takes over even more brain capacity than normal.

It took him two months to stop contacting me. I’d only been in touch once.

Another French guy could not take the fact that I didn’t want to meet him, so decided that it was my friend’s fault and began texting me insults about her. What a way to try and win me over!

We’ve been in all sorts of crazy situations. Guys chasing after us in cars, guys following us down the street, and even guys trying to follow us into our apartments.
There’s been Matrix guy, French guy, French guy number 2 (even more of an ass), Egyptian guy (who somehow found my work number and thought it would be a good idea to ring me there), Shisha guy(s), Local Hottie, Local Attire guy…The list is endless.

All in all, I find it quite amusing. But it’s hard for a gal like me who isn’t a subscriber to the ‘Fast Love’ plan to separate the players from the bigger players. For now, I guess I will just sit back and observe the fun until one of the normal ones gets off a plane.

Maybe my best bet is to go and snatch one before immigration?

The Taxi Mystery Solved

Following a couple of burgers and a side order of grease at TGI’s in the Crowne Plaza on Thursday night, we made our way into a waiting taxi.

As soon as we got in we were greeted to a rather amusing message from the cab’s GPS system.

‘You have just rejected a job. You have incurred a penalty.’ said the American robot.

The taxi driver collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Now I bloody know why the taxis that I order never turn up.

Welcome

Almost a year ago I had reached a stale mate in my life back home in the UK. I was trapped in Groundhog Day. More unfortunately for me, my version of GD consisted of rain, grey skies, a local government job and the drying up hope of a high flying, post-university life.

Through sheer fear of becoming boring (always my worse nightmare), I decided to pack my life and stilettos into a suitcase (yes, that’s all it took) and move to Dubai. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

Here I am some time later, and I can easily say I achieved what I set out to. My life is no longer boring. In fact, it’s something completely off the other side of the scale. Living in Dubai is bizarre, exciting, intriguing, mesmerising, and at times scary (daily taxi cab user). I work hard, party even harder. And I’m finally on the job ladder I want to be on.

Being single, and female (and Western may I sheepishly add) means some of the experiences I have are, well, worth a mention. I live in the city where Fast Love should be its theme tune and where varying versions of morals (or lack of), beliefs and customs collide in the 48 degree desert heat. So I’ve decided to share my experiences, wonderings and ponderings and general gossip with you all. Those who know me, know I love to talk ;)

I could sit and give a running commentary of my time here so far-it already makes an interesting read. However, I have every confidence that sources of material will not dry up. In fact, things are just about to heat up.

Happy reading. :)