The Abu Dhabi experience (2): Madinat Zayed (1)

Madinat Zayed

Continued.....

I am still in Abu Dhabi-but not for long.

The next day, I waited at the reception of my hotel for the promised taxi to arrive at noon.

My intuition told me that the taxi wouldn’t arrive at all –let alone on time.

I was right.

At 12.30 I called S.

Is the driver on the way S?

‘Uhhh.’. ...silence …

“Get back to yuh in two minutes, D___”

Ten minutes later…

‘Ullo D___ –driver will be with you in alf an hower!’

“No worries S___" I said with a lame attempt at an Aussie accent.

I was trying to sound obliging and laid back like an Aussie. It really is an effort for me to do this. More to the point- why was I doing this? Maybe it was something subconscious -to do with the fact that S was so obviously a bloody useless Pom? And I just didn’t want him to think I was Irish.

The driver arrived. He was a pleasant Philipino but a useless conversationalist. He knew nothing about cricket.

All the cars in the UAE have a continuous bleeping sound which can not be turned off when you exceed the speed limit. The result is stressful to someone unaccustomed to it. It sounds like your mobile phone continually bleeping. Doesn’t seem to bother anybody else- but it bothered me.

We travelled out of Abu Dhabi through an Orwellian landscape of desolation.. It was like a construction site that had been hit with a nuclear bomb and then recolonised by cockroaches and metal giants, humans and electric pylons respectively). It wasn’t clear who the slaves were and who were the masters in this surreal scenario from a novel of H.G. Wells.

It was grotesque.

I was taking all this in when I got a text message form my line manager “Mr. E” in Madinat Zayed, who had been pretty quiet up until now.

I could tell he was a plummy pommy from north London or Essex, or some such place south of the Watford Gap, anyway.

‘ETA Don?’

‘Bout four pm, E’ quickly switching to my international accent. I didn’t want to sound like an Aussie or an Irishman to Mr. E.

And then, in jest.

“I hope R___ and Ea. (my two colleagues in MZ) know I’m coming.....-heh!..heh!" I said nervously!”

Reply on SMS from Mr. E.

‘They do now’

I wasn’t quite  sure what to make of this. Was this Mr. E’s sense of humor? Could Ea and R___, mature gentlemen and professional educational consultants like myself, really not be aware of my impending arrival?

I had one or two pretty uncharitable thoughts about S-but banished them. I determined to be positive- think like an Aussie even if I spoke like an international nerd.

I reassured myself with ‘It must be Mr. E’s sense of humor’.

I began to relax and enjoy the passing pylons, concrete mixers and cement lorries. It seemed to somewhow match the beeping in the car.

My Philipino driver seemed oblivious.

I was wrong about one thing right from the start. Mr. E turned out not to have a sense of humor at all.

As we approached MZ the desolate landscape began to change for the better. Slowly, but surely, dunes began to appear. By the time we reached MZ it was the true Arabian desert with dunes all round. I was relieved and my spirits lifted.

We drew up beside a three storey block of flats –quite conspicuous looking-because there was absolutely nothing else around it –just sand.

As I got out of the car I was approached by an elderly white male with a brown cowboy hat, a sauntering gait and a limp-wristed handshake. He seemed to have a permanent superficial grin with a supercilious look. He didn’t have to open his mouth. It was obviously an Aussie.

It was R___.

‘You must be D’ he grinned.

‘Yeah G'day mate! I said enthusiastically taking his hand, pleased to meet you.’ In words and body language, I was using both Aussie and Pommy persona for R__ –to keep him guessing until I had got his measure.

Now R___ I didn’t know - but I knew of him. He had been in Brunei and we had had a mutual friend in Brunei who had told me a fair bit about him. Not all of it was positive so I was determined to be cautious and get on his right side as I knew I was going to be the bugger’s boss.

Later events proved me absolutely right to be cautious.

R___ was an asshole.

I don’t really understand why Johnson doesn’t get more wickets against the South Africans. There is something about his action that isn’t right. It’s too round arm.

Why do I keep looking up to Johnson? He’s half my age. A few years ago he would have been abusing me in the classroom. And I look up to him? He’s the same age as my son. Who said human behavior was rational?

My second son, (only four years younger than Johnson) told me yesterday that I shouldn’t be seeking reality all the time. He accused me of being like my eldest son (who is the same age as Johnson).

‘No–its not reality –its sincerity I look for” –I protested happily as we happened to be sharing a glass of Coopers Sparkling Ale.

‘And, since you know it all (I thought to myself) why are Aussies so reserved and closed. Why don’t they talk? Why are they so bloody suspicious’ I say to him.

My son says “You just have to accept that they are closed and then they will become friends”


What had he been reading then? He is such a talented young man –and wasted on some of the mirthless morons around him at the University. 

Talk? Aussies?....No

but bullshit? For sure!.

Australia is grite mite –yeah.! You’ll get a job in any school - any Government school!

“Sure mate, and why is that then? Because nobody else will to teach the cheeky bastards of course


The outskirts of Abu Dhabi were a mirthless, Orwellian wasteland inhabited by drones who have no time to interact because they are ‘busy’- just like Adelaide.

Not much difference really. Just more sand in the former.

I only feel good when I am cycling, writing, or watching cricket.

Nobody wants to read what I write and I have nowhere to cycle either-but I do both because they give me pleasure and I’m not trying to please anybody else. Writing, in particular, has become a compulsion –an addiction –like everything else in my life.

Actually I do have an audience of about six people. I’m not very demanding  but I wouldn’t mind an Oscar or standing ovation from time to time,

If no-one else will talk to me then I’ll talk to myself - by writing.

Why is everybody so damn busy?

What are they doing? Nobody has time to talk to each other – what’s wrong with them? Is anything more important than talking?

It’s a western disease-this ‘busyness’ inability to make time to speak and communicate.

It is a monstrous cancer which metastasized in the sixties in the “West” and has spread into the other continents now. It is now out of control.


Our culture is dying: look at our addictions. We have created a soulless, alienated world which, naturally, we are obsessed with distracting ourselves from. With TV, internet, alcohol, sex, drugs or most commonly - work. I don’t mean just work –I mean ‘busyness’anything will do-as long as it distracts us from ourselves and the nightmare around us..

Nobody reads anything, talks to each other …no time.

Everything is drudgery and meaningless. Bits of paper here for this and that.

‘I need you to fill in this form please’

“Excuse me are you asking me? Or you are commanding me to do it?

There is a big difference. One is polite and the other is rude,

Do you mind showing me your bag please?

Can I ask to you for some ID please?

Have you got your mobile number please?

“I need you to provide evidence that you intend to live permanently in Australia”

She said “I need you to convince me that you are going to stay in Australia”

When did you migrate to Australia, bitch?

“I give up! I can’t remember. “Up yours! Who cares? When did you fucking migrate to Australia?”

Flashing lights…

“Pull over sir!” Can you tell me why you’re not wearing your helmet sir? Says the blue eyed Adonis.

Oh sorry, you see, I’ve just come back form Abu Dhabi and I’m not very familiar with…  I’m fifty-six you fuckwit!

Got any identification?

Fumble, fumble, a passport and a couple of hundred tumbles out of my breast pocket.

Can you tell me sir says the blueheeler, femnazi, sidekick why you have so much cash on you?

“Yes, I brought it with me from Abu Dhabi so that Centrelink can’t trace it to my account and won’t know about it and then deny me my claim for unemployment benefit you fuckwit!

I thought. Hasn’t this femnazi or her assanine colleague ever lived in the desert? They are surrounded by one.”

I had an instant vision of her eating a burger with tomato sauce drooling down her chin-Yuck!

What sort of mentality names a desert after a member of the British Royal family? The ‘Simpson’ desert-Jesus Christ!

To be fair, maybe ‘Simpson’ was the former captain of the Aussie cricket team. It would make more sense.

It must have been obvious that I was a little merry because I’d had some Coopers.

“Sir, I’m just gawiin to geev ya a wawnin sir!”

Oh! Good onya matey! Says I, a little too merrily

‘Yew mobile number? Sir, ‘oil ave to ask you to woke yaw baicycle home cause you’ve nao ‘elmet”

“Oh no worries matey! Good onya! No worries…”

So I pedal off feeling bad about initially thinking such uncharitable thoughts about the Adonis and his sidekick. Just blueheelers doing their job.

Can I join the DVD club?

Drivers license mate?

‘Sorry just got a bicycle’ will a bankcard do?

‘Sorry mite need photo ID.’

Out on to the road again –it’s like the Grand prix-whizz! Wang! Rubber on tarmac. The cars swish past with murderous disregard for anyone near them. One false move and I’m history.


Queues here, there and everywhere- for everything. Why don’t they pay people in the service industry so we don’t have to queue for everything? From one shop to the next its one queue to the next.

For a cyclist, the speed of the traffic and the shouts of abuse are alarming.

‘OK buddy whasup? Roars one irate driver at another stepping out of his car ’

What’s wrong with these people? They have freedom, wealth? Why do they shout at each other?

Why do they shout at me out of the windows of their cars?

‘Bloody idiot!’

What are they shouting about? There must be something wrong with them.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

Why do they play poker on a Sunday night in the Glynde hotel? They must be bored out of their tiny minds. Their lives are empty.

Why do they look so serious when they play poker? Is this how they get their rush – is Poker their cricket and their coopers sparking ale?

But Africans have nothing and they don’t shout at each other on the street because of some minor irritation. They don’t do road rage.

And yet all the young Aussies in the Adelaide service industry are so polite and positive.

‘G’day, how are you goin’ today? Says the shop assistant-or the receptionist. What can I do for you today?

Will that be all today sir?

I feel obliged to be polite back to them

Eh, can I have a bag?

‘Yep? Too easy!’

‘Anything else I can do for you today?’

How can these young people be so positive in such an Orwellian nightmare?

What are they on?

What am I on?

Should I be on what they’re on?

Should I be on something else?

I want to be on what they’re on.

They must have been to some politeness training school. The young people don’t grunt at the customer like they used to when I was young.





Yes, in Madinat zayed  R___ is the classic Aussie bullshitter:

“Oh, he says in a mocking, disrespectful voice”

“So you are my new boss –poor you....poor, poor you.”

‘Oh fuck–what an asshole’ I think to myself.

I have to write or I will die. I have to keep writing. Even if no-one reads it I don’t care. I have to keep writing or I will die. Only the six matter.(the audience)

Why are people surprised at schoolyard killings? I’m surprised there aren’t more of them.

People are lonely. That’s why they kill.

Simple as that. No need for doctoral theses.





People don’t send me E-mails or messages. What is wrong with me?

Don’t they think about me like I think about them?

My friends are scattered around the world?

One in Ireland, one in Turkey, two in Brunei, one in the UAE, one in England, one in the next suburb. That’s about it really.

Non-communication is the default position for all human beings-teenagers especially.

Ned Kelly was right..

‘Such is life’



R___ leads me into his/our apartment.

The apartment is large and spacious. Three bedrooms.

The lounge appears empty-no curtains, coffee tables, side tables, lamps, lampshades, carpets, mats.

Nothing.

There was nothing except two lounge beds which could be flattened out and used as beds but could not be used to sit on –because the flat area was too wide.

Both of them were parallel to each other and to the walls. When I entered E was sitting on one of them facing me, his back unsupported...

R sat down on the other beside me and looked stupidly at me waiting for me to say something.

‘Well...is this it? I said

Silence…yeah, said Ea with a slightly sheepish look.

They took me into the kitchen–a stove with no gas. There was a fridge. Basic crockery.

We had an amiable chat in which I recounted the amusing story of how I’d been nearly knocked out at HQ in Abu Dhabi twice within ten minutes of my arrival.

I searched their faces for a response -humour, something positive, hope-anything to reassure me that this was not ‘it’.

‘Would yuh loike a cup o’ tea? Said Ea-deciding I was worth persevering with for the moment. (Ea was pure Irish-not a half-breed like myself)

‘Sure thanks!’


Mat and W arrived.

“Goin fur a wawk then –oop the town?” Said M_________

“R u cumin D___?” He was from Liverpool.

W was more refined-obviously from the south of England.

“Yeah great!” I said.

Things were looking up. People were talking to me and inviting me to do things with them.

Off we went walking up the town.

I was on a high. We walked for two miles and then sat down and they smoked one of those ridiculous Arab pipes through which the smoke bubbles...

I felt old. Like I was about fifty-six.

I am fifty six.

But people were talking to me. This was good.

Back to meet Mr. E in his villa.

Ea and M___ came with me.

Ea wanted something. After a while he said –is it ok if you stay with Mr. E (my boss) for a few days?

‘Sure’, I said

After a few days it will be school holidays and you will have Mr. E’s house to yourself.

Mr. E agreed smoothly

“As long as you don’t mind moving in with E when I come back from the holiday.” Mr. E said.

No, of course not, I said, relieved not to have to sleep in a tent for the foreseeable future.

What else could I say?



Later I was to realize that Ea wanted the apartment for himself. It was a semi furnished apartment and he could pocket the 15 grand housing allowance. R___, the stroppy bastard, was poised to move out of the apartment in a few days.

I’d been outmaneuvered as usual –but sure what the f**k? What else is new?

Next couple of days –brilliant. People were hospitable, happy, invited me to eat etc.

It was like being a VSO again. Everyone was so young –except  R and myself_____.

I was Co-Principal of the school.

Work was good. My expat team were all there in a room. Exams were on and no work was being done by us or the teachers we were training.

I hadn’t a clue what was going on and just tried to get to know the Principal. And the teachers. They were all lovely people. The Principal himself (“Jihad”) was from Gaza-and the teachers were Egyptians, Syrians and Palestinians.


The students were a revelation –much better than expected. In the UAE in the eighties I had taught disgustingly spoiled students at an elite school. They were mostly royals and revolting.

These students were rough and undisciplined but they were desert bedouins and really quite approachable in the main. Mind you I was glad and I didn’t have to teach the buggers.

On the first day the American guy, M, my predecessor who had been passed over-and his job given to me did two noteworthy things. First, a student approached me and mumbled something. It turned out he had been beaten by the Arabic teacher with a stick. Beating with a stick was one of the things we were trying to discourage. It was tricky because the beaten boy was the son of another teacher.

Anyway, M saw what was happening and said to me.

“This is your first problem and yours to deal with-and walked away”.

Hmmm...

The second thing was to  fling about six ring binders on my desk and say

“Now that’s your second problem”

Hmmmm...

The rest of the day went well. I was living with my boss Mr. E__ in a room with no curtains, carpets bedside tables.

Downstairs Mr. E tapped away in silence on his P.C.

I had a brief but abortive attempt to induce him to converse on several occasions but like most Englishmen he quickly let me know that he found ‘chat’ boring.

Mr. E was a clean-cut, smooth talker. His head was shaped like a horse... so I'll refer to him as 'Eddie the Horse' from now on. He seemed very nice. I will try to be positive and objective about him but it is very difficult  for me. I suppose  what got me most about him was that all the girls seemed to love him even though he was plainly a boring fuckwit. I  can never understand this. I mean I may be lots of other things but I am not boring!

Perhaps it was the suits he wore. I never saw him wear anything else. Perhaps it was the plummy accent, or maybe the boyish good looks. He looked younger than his age. I think he was about 35. (He looked like a Boy Scout leader) I dunno. But it was something. The girls loved him and even some of the least sus and consequently more testosterone driven guys like the compulsive marathon runner, Mat, also liked him. So, he must have had something that made them like him. Maybe it was the fact that he smoked a cigarette only in the mornings before breakfast like he needed oxygen to save his life.

But the strange thing was it was the only one I  ever saw him smoke.

It was freezing –but it didn’t really bother me too much at first.

Two days later suddenly everything changed…

School holidays!


Suddenly, everybody vanished.

With no driving license I panicked and quickly texted L –who was my ‘Official Buddy” She  was also the 'Co-Principal' of another school.

“L, can you buy me a carton of Amstel beer when next in Abu Dhabi?”

“Well, yes D___ but it will have to be when we come back in February. We’re in Cape Town!”

February? That was fucking two weeks away. How was I going to survive two weeks in MZ without Amstel?

Leslie was a worldly bird with a history who had shacked up with a pleasant, South African who was out of work called G. She was devoted to him. I couldn’t understand it. What do women want?

I couldn’t understand G either-he let her treat him like a dog

She was the English equivalent of the Aussie femnazi.

I could understand why people hated her.

Everyone had disappeared without saying goodbye to me. I was wheeless.

I made a decision: I was going to get my myself and my accommodation sorted before I tried to get on top of the job.

In any case there was no-one- in MZ form whom I might get any info about the job from for the next two weeks...

During the holidays, I would try and get myself sorted with somewhere to live until Eddie the horse  came back from his skiing trip in Italy……