First Camping Trip: Day Two

We spent most of the next day in the car. Our lack of prior planning meant we were largely directionless and only stopped when we saw something interesting. One of these stops was outside the town of Fujairah and was the country’s oldest mosque, dating back over 1,000 years. The mosque itself was tiny but the nearby watchtower was large enough to offer decent vistas of the surrounding area. As we took in the view, a couple of western-looking gentlemen joined us. ‘Mike’ and ‘Sam’ offered to take a snapshot of Nick and I with my camera and we soon got to talking. ‘Mike’ and ‘Sam’ lived in Bahrain. When I asked what they do there, they looked at each other. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that”, ‘Mike’ offered. They didn’t take off their sunglasses the whole time we talked with them.

Back in the car and after too much driving, we eventually what we were looking for: the Golden Tulip resort. This was a step along the way to finding good camping spots as we had been informed the Golden Tulip offered good excursion options. The hotel itself was odd. Located on the peninsula of the gulf that reaches closest to Iran, it is technically part of Oman. The remoteness of the place is like finding a sleepy but well-stocked inn at the top of some lonely mountain. Why anyone would build a resort here is a mystery. Despite its location, the Golden Tulip has plenty to offer including a dedicated dive shop and a full swimming pool just off the beach. One of the excursion guides we spoke to gave us directions to some good camping nearby and soon, we were out the door and headed off in the direction of the Dibba mountains.

See previous post for photo link.

Our inventory consisted of four people, eight bags, two tents, four sleeping pads, two bundles of firewood, and enough water to keep us hydrated for at least three days. To remind you, our transportation was a two-wheel drive Toyota Yaris, a car best suited for running from the suburbs to the office and not for navigating loose gravel paths in the back country of the third-world. However, by nothing short of divine intervention did we make it up to the top of the range, stopping along the way for photo opportunities.

Once we’d reached the top, we realized our decision to jostle ourselves along the bumpiest road in the region and fray our nerves on blind corners at the edge of 100-meter precipices had been a good one. The view from the top stretched for miles and we’d arrived just as the sun was going down, adding to the magic. I set about building a fire as the others began setting up camp. Soon, we were crowded around the flames like crusty cow-hands, making dinner and passing around the grub.

The sun had set, and the stars were coming out so I set up my camera and tripod for some long-exposure shots. Shuttling between the fire and the camera, I took a moment to appreciate the remoteness of the place. Off in the distance, lights could be seen but only one or two in any one place. Maybe they were fires or maybe they were huts, placed in impossibly remote spots on the hillside by some unseen hand. Dubai was a memory. That mighty city, the biggest in the region, was some far off place of little consequence or meaning to anyone. Before bed, I stared at the shadowed mountains through the open flaps of my tent. This was exactly the escape I needed.

Concert Work

Like before, I have been busy writing for USD Radio and for Flash Entertainment in Abu Dhabi. Below are the links to some of the pieces I've written.

30 Seconds to Mars concert review:

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=4E568FD0A67573D3

Stevie Wonder concert preview:

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=9414098AB823A6D4

Photos from the third night of the Dubai Jazz Festival:

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/03/02/concert-gallery-dubai-international-jazz-festival-night-3/

Interview with Train:

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/03/18/artist-interview-train/

Photos of the Jessie J concert at Dubai World Cup:

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/04/09/concert-photos-jessie-j-at-the-dubai-world-cup/

Tonight, I am covering the Erykah Badu concert and before I head back to the states, I'll cover on more show (Maroon 5). Additionally, I'll be shooting the Red Bull X Fighters motocross event next week so stay tuned for that. Once I'm home, I'll be covering some Portland shows, including an interview with Swedish band, Junip.

First Camping Trip: Day One

The weekend sneaked up on us when we would need to get our visas renewed for another thirty days so Debbie, Tara, Nick, and I packed up our bags, rented a tiny but reliable Toyota Yaris, and sped off for Oman. As usual, I fell asleep in the back of the car but soon we were at the border, hassling with the bureaucracy in getting our visas renewed. As usual, we did it wrong and ended up having to pay too much to get a renewal stamp that would let us stick around Dubai for another month. Once we’d finished wrestling  with red tape, it was time to plan our next move.

We settled on hiking to a wadi (oasis) and once again, I fell asleep until the car began rumbling over the rough road, signaling me that it was time to get up. We ate a quick lunch and then began our trek into the wild. To be perfectly honest, we had no idea where we were going. Having just read Jon Krakauer’s “Into the Wild”, my Boy Scouting knowledge of what a genuinely bad idea this was has been renewed. Alas, such things were not our concern at the time. Granted, we were in a semi-populated area and should things have taken a turn for the worse, we could have easily subsisted off of the multitude of goats running about. To the locals peering out windows and through cracks in fences, we must have looked like idiots. They’re not wrong. We are idiots.

Imagine you were a goatherder/farmer living and working in the backcountry of the UAE. You may go days at a time without seeing anyone except family and neighbors and then one day, that not-so-rare breed, the unmistakable tourist, wanders not only past your house but onto your property. He starts chasing your herd of goats. He’s talking in loud voices and sipping water out of a pretentious Camelbak. You roll your eyes and continue repairing your farming implements knowing that this is just another one who has strayed too far from the city.

One of the locals was kind enough to invite us in for tea as we wandered past. Moussa (as I will call him. His name escapes me now) spoke decent English, but it needed work (as does my Arabic) but the concept of sitting down for a drink is fairly universal and there was no confusion. All of us cross-legged, Moussa began pouring steaming cups of tea from an old thermos. In conversation, he only spoke to Nick and me, seeming to ignore Debbie and Tara. Nick asked what his job was. “Army,” Moussa replied. Nick continued, “What do you think of the protests going on in the Middle East?” His response was shrewd, “I don’t know what you mean. There are no protests”. The question, and then the answer, was repeated. Catching on to his tactic, I chuckled, looking to Nick to convey the joke. Soon we were all laughing and raising our cups of tea.

Before we left, our friend indicated that we should wait just one more moment. He ducked into the house and I immediately knew we were about to be bestowed with some gift. Encounters in Arabia typically go like this. The interchange is not complete without some exchange of tokens and this was shaping up to be no different. To my surprise, when Moussa emerged, he was holding… a rifle? “So this is how it goes,” I thought. “We stop for five minutes at the house of a man we’ve just met and now he is going to kill us”. The stupidity of it was laughable. Were we really that dumb? Was this decision to stop for a little Arabian hospitality the last one we’d ever make? Grinning, he loaded the weapon. This is it. Now it’s just a matter of who buys the farm first. 

The smile still pasted on his face, Moussa shoved the rifle into Nick’s hands. “Shoot”. As Nick examined the rifle, he repeated, “Shoot”. So Nick shot. The round went off with a crack and the sound echoed off the surrounding hills. Now Nick and Moussa smiled. It was my turn. I aimed at the hill that rose up in the distance and pulled the trigger. There was little kick and the report was just as loud as the first time, which wasn’t very loud at all. I handed it back to Moussa and picked my spent casing off the ground. In that brief moment, we had bonded. It was surprisingly fulfilling. Moussa trusted us and, despite my initial concern about his intentions, we trusted him.

We said goodbye to Moussa and headed back to the car to continue our adventure. The day went at its own pace and we drove all over the area, eventually stopping outside Fujeirah. The Lonely Planet book informed us that Friday’s featured bull-butting. Oblivious to what this entailed, exactly. We got curious and decided to watch. Essentially, bull-butting is the region’s version of a rodeo, only with one event. White-robed men drag immense beasts out toward one another in the middle of a dirt circle. There, the animals lower their head and do battle, mountain-goat style. Whichever creature backs down first concedes defeat and all the while, the crowd whistles and cheers, enthusiastic about the prospects of “their” bull. We managed to see about three of these competitions, the last one ending in the near-escape of one of the bulls. Before the duel could begin, it escaped the hold of its handlers and charged for the edge of the arena. In one tense moment, over-eager spectators who had actually entered the ring scrambled for safety on the opposite side of the railing. The beast closed in ferociously but slowed at the last seconds, apparently becoming disinterested with it attack.

The event concluded, we set out for dinner and after that, a place to camp. Following contradictory sets of directions, we eventually ended up in a sandy area on the edge of the region’s largest wildlife sanctuary. In keeping with Emirati standards about the outdoors (which is largely unprofitable) there were no permits or reservations needed and we pitched our tents where we pleased. The night was pleasant and we wiled it away talking and star gazing at the edge of the water that lapped in from the gulf. It was a much welcome change from the hustle and bustle of the city and even by morning, I was ready for more. 


Click here for pictures from the camping trip (photos 132 through 147).

Dubai World Cup

On March 25th and 26th, I covered the Dubai World Cup for the USD Vista student newspaper. What follows is my account of the event as submitted to the Vista. Unfortunately, the article was never published.

In preparing to cover the Dubai World Cup, the world’s most expensive horserace, on March 26^th I assessed my prior knowledge of the sport. What I needed was a complete list of how the sport is conducted and any and all of the fanfare that is associated with it. As I struggled to recall my experience at the San Jose track through the hazy memories of inebriated fans and the distraction of the lovely lady sitting next to me, I realized I needed to start smaller.

Which horse won? No clue.

What was the awards ceremony like? I didn’t know there was one.  

How many races were there? There was more than one?

After running the mental hamster on his wheel for a good twenty minutes I realized my list consisted of 1) I saw a horse, 2) beer was prevalent, and 3) people placed bets.

It was time to consult someone more knowledgeable than I.

Erin Karahadian, formerly of USD’s Equestrian team, was helpful in this regard. “The races begin in a moveable gate where the horses are loaded into a kind of chute” she explained and “When the gates spring open there is a bell which the horses are trained to hear”. This sends the horses into “race mode.” From there, they are sent hurtling around the elliptical track, which is typically a mile or more in length. The jockey crouches in a death-defying tuck atop the horses back, controlling the beast’s maneuvers and speed. Erin added that “some jockeys will hold their horses speed and then let them loose at the end while others let them gain pace from the get go”. Whoever finishes first, wins.

The horses themselves are young and expensive, selling for millions of dollars before their abilities are yet proven. “The problem with racing these horses” Erin explained, “is that there is so much pounding on their tiny legs”. Thus, racehorses are typically “retired” at a very young age, usually at age seven or eight.

Armed with this new knowledge of the sport, I confidently set out for Meydan, the premiere destination for thoroughbred racing outside the United States.

Day One was orientation. As the taxi neared Meydan, I realized we were headed for that mysterious, looming structure I have seen lurking in Dubai’s desert haze. Even from a distance, the sheer enormity of Meydan is awe-inspiring. A low-slung building, Meydan is unremarkable in height but typifies Dubai’s taste for the best and the biggest. Built at a cost of approximately $2 billion (nearly twice the cost of the world’s tallest building, Burj Khalifa, but hey, who’s counting?), Meydan is a modern marvel. The building itself is a “landscraper”, stretching a mile from one end to the other.

Exiting the taxi, I made for the media room. After walking what felt like the entire length of the building, I found it tucked away on the fifth floor, business-types hustling in and out of its inconspicuous door. Inside, the attendant handed me my credentials. “You look different than the picture you submitted”, she observed. Scratching my new beard, I replied “Yeah, I dunno why”. Taking my race-day handbook and media pass, I moved for the door. Before I could exit, she called me back to the counter. “Sir, you almost forgot this”, she said, handing me a thin white-box. “Thanks” I offered, taking the packet of what felt like brochures. Noting the time, I hustled downstairs to the Interview Center.

There, Henry Cecil, trainer of Prince Khalid Abdullah’s horse, Twice Over, was preparing to have his brain picked by the standing-room only crowd of media. His horse, Twice Over, was the favorite to win the next day’s big race and Cecil touted the steed’s new shoes as the key to success. Cecil said he hoped for a more favorable result than Twice Over’s tenth-place finish in last year’s Dubai World Cup and when asked about his management style at the stable, he cheekily responded “we like to work in what we call a ‘team’”. Cecil seemed unperturbed by the rest of the field saying “the only horse I know is my own”.

Next in the hot-seat were Bob Baffert and Carl O’Callaghan, trainers of Euroears and Kinsale King, respectively. Baffert was the first to mention Dubai’s unique travel factor. Whereas most races feature local horses, Dubai’s immense purses (a total of $27.25 million from eight races) serve to attract talent from all over the globe. However, getting a horse to Dubai isn’t as easy as bringing a 1,200 pound horse on a Delta flight. “Yes, stewardess, this is my carry-on,” only works in certain instances. “We came here to win,” Baffert said, “It’s a long trip.”

By the end of the interviews, it was ten o’clock and time for the photographer’s meeting. I made for the lower-level media center and found my workstation. I was placed in the blue group and given a spot on the rail along the racetrack. This was where I’d be standing during the race. I was incredulous. To get any closer to the horses, I would have to be a jockey.

The following day, race day, started at 3:40 in the afternoon, but I arrived early to familiarize myself with the venue. Making my way through the atrium to the media center, I caught a glimpse of the spectator’s side of horse racing. Women in ornate hats and lavish dresses flitted about while men in designer threads stood coolly, scanning the room. Costumed men on stilts beckoned to the masses below like freakish giraffes while clowns bounced to and fro keeping the chilluns attention either through genuine entertainment or sheer fright. Half of racing is the appearances. Meydan features the Jaguar Style Stakes, with prizes for the best dressed woman, man, and couple. The woman with the best hat gets a free weekend rental on any Jaguar model and a new smart phone. Half the photographers I had seen the previous day were scurrying about, documenting the fashionistas. I wouldn’t see them the rest of the day, as I was there to shoot horse racing, and they, to cover the spectators.

Downstairs in the media center, I lurked in the lounge waiting for the excitement to begin. Like any self-respecting college student, I took full advantage of the all-day, all-you-can-eat buffet available to media personnel. I pondered whether this was unique to Dubai or a staple of all professional-level events. If so, I thought, I could get used to this.

Outside, I chose to get some shots of the trophies. Nonchalantly, I strolled to the winner’s circle, where the champion horses were led for photos before the jockey and winning team headed for the awards stage. As I moved from one trophy to another, I felt a tap on my shoulder and then, “Sir, blue vest. No”. The guard was dressed to the nines, like everyone else in attendance. If I hadn’t known otherwise, I would have thought he was a private body guard. He was immense, his bald head glistening in the midday sun. The last time I saw someone squeezed into a suit in such a way, it was Bruce Banner shortly before he switched into beast-mode as the Hulk.  I wasn’t supposed to be there and we both knew it. Winner’s circle access required a red vest, reserved for the more eminent publications: AP, Reuters, Gulf News. I sulked off like a scolded child.

The typical opening ceremonies soon began. There was much flag-waving and celebration of Dubai’s diversity and prestige while marches blared from every speaker. Off in the distance, a team of stunt-riders added to the revelry, racing back and forth in front of the immense jumbotron. The pace of the horses and length of the stage/screen put it in perspective: the distance must have been at least 300 feet. Thoughts of “how much did that cost?” seemed to be crossing my mind more and more.

The first race, the Dubai Kahayla Classic, began at 4:35 and was won by Seraphin du Paon. In the span of two minutes and eighteen seconds, the owners made off with the quarter-million dollar purse. For the sake of comparison, that’s $1,811.5942 per second or 767,264 times my wage at Coldstone Creamery.

More fascinating than the stakes of the event was the race itself. As I leaned against the rail, ready to snap as many photos as possible when the pack of racers approached, I realized the sheer power of these animals and the bravery of the jockeys. Off in the distance, the competitors appeared as a small congregation of forms bobbing up and down. At that distance, it looked like I would be waiting a long time before they were within the range of my lens. Not five seconds later, they had come within just a few hundred meters and were closing fast. Cameras all around me began clicking, rising in a crescendo until the sound approximated a swarm of cicadas. However, this was drowned out by the rumble of hooves on topeta (fake dirt) as the cavalry roared past. Below me, the earth shook. I felt the incredulity one senses upon realizing such a cliché is actually based in reality. The jockeys, perched atop the horses, clung to the reigns, peering straight ahead through spaceman goggles. In a moment, they were gone, disappeared to the far end of the track.

The remainder of my day was a test of endurance as I shuttled from racetrack to paddock to awards stage, snapping photo after photo in endless succession. Periodically, I would find a minute or two to hustle back to my workstation and transfer my shots from camera to computer but a glance at the clock would incite a panic: It’s almost race time! Five minutes! Get out there! For six hours, this was the routine. Around the time of the sixth race, the Dubai Duty Free ($5,000,000 purse) I took a risk and ducked into the media lounge for dinner. I couldn’t scarf the food fast enough and avoided eye contact with anyone because to do so would surely elicit looks of horror at this crazed man. I slung my photo-pack over my shoulder and bolted for the door as quickly as I’d bolted my meal.

It was 8:00 and well into the evening. Following Presvis’ win at the sixth race (the Dubai Duty Free) the lights of the grandstands went down, plunging Meydan into darkness. From the far end of the track, a low rumble arose, different from the sound of hooves I had grown accustomed to. A dozen semi-trucks, robed in black fabric – a poor attempt to hide the fact that they were ugly big-rigs – crept along until the whole caravan halted in front of the grandstand. At either end of the procession were giant cranes, holding immense mannequins aloft. On the backs of the trucks, a perplexing medley of jumbotrons, circus performers, and movie sets loomed against the night sky.

Out of the dark rose a voice, the same one that had proclaimed Dubai’s preeminence in diversity and heritage. The booming voice repeated his earlier message, emphasizing Dubai’s unique culture. I laughed to myself. In Dubai, foreigners outnumber natives six to one. This intense foreign involvement has allowed the city to grow from essentially nothing, springing up out of the sand like a desert flower. In 1965, America had 75,257,588 passenger cars on the road. Three years later, Dubai had… drumroll, please… 13. Since most of us were born, the city has gone from having one skyscraper to over 400. In the span of just a few decades, Dubai has metamorphosed from backwater to hub and while this is a commendable achievement, it does not mean Dubai has any great history to speak of. Like most things in Dubai, thoroughbred horseracing is a foreign import, no matter how the announcer chooses to spin it.

The bewildering performance of acrobats, dancers, and high-wire daredevils, backed by the biggest fireworks display I’ve ever seen, played itself out, much to the delight of the thrill-seeking spectators. Nearly an hour later, the grandstand lights came up and the trucks rolled away, the spectral marionettes leading them in an odd, jerking dance. It was time for the big races.

The Dubai Sheema Classic was first, run on the immaculate green turf track. Rewilding took the $5,000,000 purse in two minutes and twenty-nine seconds, setting a new record for the 2,400 meter track. At 9:35, it was time for the big one: the Dubai World Cup. Out on the topeta track, the competitors were ushered into the gate, eager to take home the world’s largest sum for a single horserace: $10,000,000, five times the Kentucky Derby’s purse. Throughout the complex, the tension could be felt. Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing for two minutes and five seconds to see Victoire Pisa beat out thirteen others, including poor Twice Over who finished ninth, a one-place improvement over his 2010 result. At this pace, expect Twice Over to win sometime after his fourteenth birthday in 2019. Victoire Pisa, ridden by jockey, Mirco Demuro and owned by Yoshimi Ichikawa, was regally welcomed into the winner’s circle as the flashbulbs of the red-vested photographers burst all around. The real emotion came forth on the awards stage a few moments later. Japanese fans, pressed against the railing, wept as they waved Japanese flags. On stage, the team of trainer, owner, and jockey, along with all relevant families crowded with the award presenter’s, Sheikh Mohammad bin Rashid al Maktoum, ruler of Dubai, and his brother, Sheikh Hamdan bin Rashid al Maktoum. A teary Demuro accepted the jockey’s trophy as his Japanese patrons applauded and fought back emotion, betrayed by their misty eyes and quivering lips. Down below, I joined the platoon of photographers snapping dozens, then scores, then hundreds of photos of the historic event.

The race had ended. Spectators disappeared from the grandstands and laborers emerged to clean up the mess. From the media center, exhausted photographers plopped down at workstations to begin submitting photos. I followed suit, periodically glancing at the big-screen TV above my workstation. It was broadcasting the closing fireworks show, which was bigger than the one from a couple hours ago. I’d heard rumor that Jessie J, of pop fame, would be performing as part of the post-race entertainment but this was only confirmed when she pranced across the screen above my workstation, causing me to grab my equipment and make for the door like a man possessed.

Moments later, I was at the stage, bellied up against the speakers, happily snapping away again. A sucker for a concert, I couldn’t resist taking in everything the Dubai World Cup race day had to offer and stayed until the last song of her 45-minute set. As I walked away, she announced she’d saved the best for last, the song everyone had come to hear: “Price Tag”, the current UK chart-topper. As I strolled back to the media center to collect my things, the chorus echoed from one end of Meydan to the other: “it’s not about the money, money, money”.

Not at Meydan. Here, it is all about the money.

Click here for my review of Jessie J's performance at USDRadio.org

IDEX: the Middle East's Largest Weapons Expo

Most times, the simple combination of guns and the Middle East creates another simple combination of fear and panic. Contrary to popular belief, however, the Middle East is not a hotbed of terrorist activity where every child is exposed to anti-Western propaganda from a young age and raised with a bloodlust for the American infidels. Give an Emirati a gun (gasp!) and he will not shoot you outright. In fact, his reaction will likely be like that of any other man in Middle America: a grin will spread across his face and he will lower his eye to the scope, squinting, thinking he is John Rambo. If it’s a handgun, he’ll pop the magazine in and out just to hear the satisfying click of the metal. This masculine obsession with “toys” is universal and so it’s unsurprising that Abu Dhabi hosts a convention called “Big Boy Toys” in which vendors from all over show off their newest and coolest gadgets for dudes with disposable income to stuff their garages with.

But that’s not the convention I went to.

I went to IDEX (International Defense Exhibition and Conference), also held in Abu Dhabi. This event is the Middle East’s largest exposition of arms dealers, all presenting their wares for the serious buyer and seriously curious student alike. I, along with two friends, applied for passes to IDEX at the recommendation of Pat Gordon, my friend in Abu Dhabi. With our nametages confidently hung around our necks, Nick, Richard, and 
I descended the escalator into the cavernous exhibition hall, unsure of what to expect.


What we found was similar to how I remember the Portland Auto Show, when I used to visit with my father. Each hall is divided into sections. In Portland, each section represented an automaker, but here, each category was a different country. Instead of the brand’s various models, each area featured arms dealers based in a specific nation. The first one we visited was Germany. Because I am an American, I inherently have difficulty pronouncing – much less remembering – foreign names. Therefore, I have no clue which company’s booth we visited first but I do remember the equipment.

I had a long conversation with Hans (or Nils, or Helmut, or whatever the heck his name was) about his company’s high-tech sensors. In the succession of war-equipment, sensors are pretty boring. They don’t go boom and manning them generally means you are far away from the action. However, when you consider their capabilities, they are pretty darn cool. This particular model – the top of the line not just for its manufacturer, but for the whole industry – is capable of just about everything except launching an attack. Using thermal, infrared, and high-res cameras as well as radar, it is able to pick up a target either by its profile (it can recognize what a helicopter looks like, for example) or by its heat signature. It can then track the target as it moves and while it does that, pinpoints its location on a map. The latter bit doesn’t sound so impressive until you consider that it is essentially plotting the objects location on a map hundreds of times per second. It’s the equivalent of a person watching a basketball game from the bench while simultaneously picturing the position of players from a birds-eye-view. The system then can communicate all information about the target’s movement, position, profile, etc to a command center or directly to an attack force. Then, boom. Off goes a rocket/missile/warhead and the problem is solved.

Another highlight of the conference was German booth selling rocket launchers, including one designed for anti-tank purposes. While the booth was small, it was notable that it was located directly adjacent to another German company selling, of all things, tanks. The irony was probably lost on the professionals in attendance. Rocket launchers of today are not designed to knock-out tanks, generally. Instead, they are designed and promoted as good defense against, of all things, pirates. In what was a surprising twist, I quickly caught on that one of the watchwords in the defense industry today is pirates. With the world’s shipping and cruise industry gripped by fear of being hijacked by wild Somali pirates, a market has opened up for creative ways of repelling/killing the attackers. Rocket launchers are included in this strategy. My favorite part of my conversation with this particular purveyor was his presentation of his company’s anti-bunker rocket launcher.

“Zis varhead vas developed by zis company and iz called ze Bunkerfaust. It does not destroy ze bunker but instead contains thousands of little pee-sez zat are released at high velocity when ze varhead explodes, killing every-vun inside”

In a twisted way, it was refreshing to see that nobody was beating around the bush as to why they were there. In many cases, the vendors are selling weapons that are ultimately designed to kill people. Sure there are the sensors, and the EOD devices, and the minesweepers, and the odd tactical trainer but if you’re selling weapons you’re like any other salesman and want to explain why your product is the best choice for the task at hand, especially if that task is killing bad guys.

Not long after, the three of us got a hot tip about the demonstration going on outside and so we hustled our way to the exit to catch a glimpse of what all the noise was coming from. Outside, we found the live demo area. Each company that is featured at IDEX can bring their wares to display and if you are an auto outfitter/manufacturer, you want to display your work in action. This means proving that your tanks can climb a 30 degree slope at 40 miles per hour and that yes, in fact your tricked-out Nissan Xterra can ford four and a half feet of water.  To facilitate this, IDEX featured what looked like a BMX track in front of large outdoor grandstands. Across the dirt heaps, tanks, APCs, cars, bikes, ATVs and anything with two, four, six, or eight wheels trundled, flew, flipped, jumped, careened, and plowed from left to right. As the vehicles paraded across the uneven terrain, a stunt team of riders put their motocross bikes through their paces, flying high above the other vehicles. In the sky, a team of professional skydivers criss-crossed, landing with precision between the crowd and the melee of engines. Once the air was clear of parachutists, a jet flyover screamed through, drowning out all earthly sounds with its roar.

Back inside, we continued to wander the booths, trying out Lockheed Martin’s simulated rocket launcher, holding guns, talking with one of iRobot’s (think The Hurt Locker) head engineers, and sitting in large armored personnel carriers (“Shut the door! We don’t want anyone sneaking up and taking pictures of our interiors. The Koreans are at the booth next to ours and they’ll reverse-engineer everything!”). We made our way to NAVDEX (IDEX for naval ships) and walked around some of the ships. I was unimpressed but we were running out of time and didn’t get to see enough to do it justice. Towards the end of the day, we ventured into the Eastern European/Russian/Asian section of the expo center.

This presented one of the more disturbing features of IDEX. One Russian booth featured a very humble display, consisting of a TV screen running an animated video on a loop. Nearby, a stack of brochures sat in hodge-podge fashion as if they’d gotten a lot of attention throughout the hectic day. There were no attendants at the booth but a crowd had gathered in the walkway and was watching the TV. The film was a crummy production with no sound but what it presented was chilling. In it, a train is shown rumbling across a tiaga landscape. It stops and a moment later, one of the cargo containers rises up, as if being lifted by an invisible hand. Just as magically, the end of the container slides away, revealing four rocket tubes. In quick succession, the projectiles are fired and the cover slides back into place. The container lowers itself back onto its railcar and the train moves off. The scenario is repeated again on a container ship and even from a flatbed truck. As the film ended, the crowd moved hurriedly for brochures. This seemed like a topic that needed more attention.

Brochure bags in hand, we made our way back to the parking structure as the vendors packed up their booths. IDEX had been interesting. It was medieval. It was barbaric and hollow. It was merchants of death peddling their wares to the highest bidder. It was a devaluation of human life but at the same time, it was commerce. It was industry. It was national security and the pinnacle of man’s technological achievements. Above all, it was reality. Might may not make right, but its influence is undeniable. 

Dubai Duty Free Tennis Championships

One of the perks of living in Dubai is there is always something interesting happen. It seems like every time I turn around, there is another big sporting event, expo, or concert going on. It’s amazing that I’ve been able to attend as many as I have but what is more impressive is the scale of the events Dubai hosts. Where most big cities have an unintentional hierarchy of events - small-time local bands playing concerts at seedy dive bars all the way up to the big-name artists selling out amphitheaters – Dubai only has the latter. Makes sense. Dubai is all about making money and the international stars are the ones who will do that for you. So, in true Dubai fashion, the local tennis scene skipped over all the amateur nonsense and went straight for the big leagues with the Dubai Duty Free Tennis Championship.

On a Wednesday after class, Ryan, Jasmine and I piled into a taxi and speed off with the utmost urgency for the stadium. We got there with time to spare, crucial, as the general admission seats were filling up fast. Not long after, Novak Djokovic and Feliciano Lopez were squaring off just a few yards away from our seats. Djokovic’s ranking as the world’s second best did not help him beat Lopez. The match went to full sets (which, for this tourney, was only three for some reason) and featured plenty of unforced errors. Despite this, it was some of the best tennis I’ve seen. I could cite stats and tell you about the advantages each player had over the other but in the end, I’d be at a loss for words to tell you about that elusive quality that makes a good match like this one exciting to watch. By the end of it, most everyone in the stadium was on the edge of their seats, periodically bursting forth with a yelp of joy or flopping back in their seat in agony. When Djokovic finally won the last set, six to four, I exhaled a sigh of relief I didn't realize I’d been holding. A performance like that will live in my memory longer than the match’s duration. The same cannot be said for Federer.

The next match of the evening was between Roger Federer and Marcel Granollers and was difficult to watch. The stadium’s announcer seemed to be conspiring with Federer in tearing down poor Marcel. The assault began before the match even started as the announcer introduced the two men on the court to the crowd. Starting with Granollers, the buttery voice announced his career accomplishments, including the sole professional title he’s won in some inconsequential tournament in Houston that holds the same amount of prestige as a backyard badminton match. Harsh assessment, you say. Well, it’s telling that the reigning King of Clay, Mr. Rafael Nadal, has never even bothered entering this particular clay-surface tournament. Nadal or no, Granollers laid claim to the title in 2008 and has surely been clutching it to his chest ever since.

Federer, on the other hand, has no such problems of inadequacy. Following Granoller’s piddling introduction, the announcer took a deep breath, and began holding forth on Federer’s illustrious career, including his 237 weeks as the world’s number one, 67 professional titles, 22 (ten consecutive) Grand Slam titles, $61 million in career winnings, and a sidenote… something about an Olympic gold medal. If Granollers wasn’t intimidated before, he was now.

I don’t think I need to describe the match. It ended predictably and we rose from our seats, happy with what we’d seen. Once again, Dubai brought us the best in the world, and we were not disappointed.

Mom's Visit

Following the DDC, mom came to visit. For one week, we bumped around the city, going out for meals I’d never get to enjoy on my own.

One of the days mom was here, we headed to Abu Dhabi to visit some friends. The ride there proved interesting as the bus filled up before we could board. An enterprising kid a couple years younger than I approached us and proposed we share a taxi. The idea wasn’t as crazy as it first sounded, the far being reasonable despite Abu Dhabi being more than an hour away. The fourth passenger was Jeniffer, a designer working in Dubai. The four of us set out and within a couple hours, mom and I had arrived at the Gordon’s home. Mrs. Gordon is an artist. However, this is the same way Tolstoy was a writer. You don’t get the full effect of the statement until you see it/experience it for yourself and I’ll leave it at that.

The Gordon’s were kind enough to take us on a full tour of the city. The highlight of the day was the Al-Ghazel Golf Club. As members, the Gordons invited us into the clubhouse for lunch. It was about as far removed from snobby golf as it gets. Think Caddyshack as opposed to Gentleman’s Game. When members weren’t buying each other rounds at the bar (it was midday, mind you) they were razzing each other relentlessly, then bursting into laughter and hoisting their glasses in unison. It was an Irish drinking song incarnate, in the backwaters of the Arabian Peninsula. Adding to the strangeness of it all was the course itself, which was sand. There was not a blade of grass in sight. It works like this: golfers tee off from the box, carefully watch for the puff of sand downrange where their ball has landed, walk towards it, slide a piece of Astroturf underneath it and continue playing. The informality of this kind of play is partly responsible for the informality of the larger club and I loved it.

The rest of the day consisted of visits to the Abu Dhabi Golf Club with its signature falcon-shaped clubhouse (see the picture in my album). Apparently, the design of the building was much contested. The location of the bird’s tail was argued: should it be crapping on the patrons as they arrived at the entrance or when they approached the clubhouse after finishing their round. In the end (pun intended) it was decided to situate it near the parking lot, allowing for a much more majestic view from the front. See the picture in my Facebook album.

The Gordon’s were as hospitable as anyone could be and took us as far as the Emirates Palace. The place is immense, and lavish to boot. Total cost for construction was somewhere north of $3 billion, or the GDP of Fiji. Last year, it was home to the world’s most expensive Christmas tree, valued at $11 million. Rooms are tiled with marble and decorated with gold. The UAE government paid for the whole thing. Mom and I wandered around the place for a while, taking it all in before having dinner in one of the restaurants. Having barbecue on the private waterfront makes you feel like royalty which is the whole idea behind Emirates Palace.

The day concluded with a long taxi ride to Yas Island where I parted ways from mom. I was meeting up with some friends for the Tiësto concert (see review at usdradio.org) and she was headed back to Dubai. We’d meet up the following day for the Train concert at Media City (interview here).