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).

Dubai Desert Classic

Since I have been in Dubai, I have been attending Mass at St. Francis Church in Jebel Ali (you may remember this from the Jebal Ali Free Zone Bus Ride of Death. I’ve mentioned it before). One of my fellow parishioners is Nishanti and she has been kind enough to drive me back to campus following the 8 AM mass on Sundays. This is highly convenient as she works at the Emirates Golf Club which sits literally across the street from school. Sunday being a workday in the Middle East, she goes from mass to work and I go from mass to campus.

As an employee of the golf club, Nishanti was able (and generous enough) to provide me with three passes to the Dubai Desert Classic, one of the region’s premier golfing events and a stop on the European Tour. From February 10^th-13^th, I watched more golf than is healthy for one person.

My partner in crime was Ryan Nees, a Yalie who is studying abroad at AUD, like me. On our first day, we wandered onto the grounds of Emirates Golf Club, past the vendors, viewing area, and straight into the clubhouse.

Wait.

Clubhouse?

Yes, the passes provided to us by Nishanti read “Member Guest” and right below that “Clubhouse”. This meant we had full access to all the lavish amenities of the region’s most distinctive clubhouse and we were sure to take full advantage of it. From inside, we could sit in comfy armchairs and watch the day’s matches proceed on big-screen TV’s but being the ambitious chums that we are, we concluded our brief tour and took to the links.

While we may be ambitious, we are by no means knowledgeable. Between us, Ryan and I could tell you a thing or two about the game of golf but this is only because we immersed ourselves for three straight days in all the hoidy-toidyness golf culture has to offer. On this first day, we were ignorant as gurgling newborns and so we toddled our way over to where we thought we could see grown men hack at miniature orbs with overly phallic clubs. Sure enough, we found a group of these athletes and began following them. As we found out later, we’d chosen a good group to follow: previous champions of the DDC, Thomas Bjorn and Miguel Angel Jimenez along with Matteo Mannaserro, the youngest player on the European Tour at age 17.

Doing our best not to reveal our ignorance, Ryan and I quietly followed the group through their last several holes of play, picking up terms, rules, and courtesies as we went. The day ended with dinner at the clubhouse. During, we watched the recap on the big outdoor screen as we happily munched our fried food and sipped our overpriced beers. At some point, I mentioned to Ryan that this Martin Kaymer character everyone was talking about was unknown to me before today. Just then, the screen lit up with the current world rankings. Kaymer was ranked second. My eyes scanned downwards and who was that signing autographs not twenty yards away? Sure enough, Martin Kaymer. Naturally, I put on my fair-weather fan hat and raced over for a signature.

Days two, three, and four were every bit as enjoyable as the first. After the cut was made following Day Two, half the original number of competitors remained, allowing us to really focus on the good golfers. Jimenez was not one of them. Despite being the defending champion, he played terribly. My earlier description of golfers as athletes does not extend to all participants of the sport, particularly Jimenez. With a gut that doubles as a leg warmer and jowls that would make Alan Greenspan jealous, Jimenez is the last person you’d peg as a reigning golf champion. In addition to his frumpy appearance, he displayed a healthy amount of rage, sometimes directing it at the fans, other times at his clubs. In what reminded me of Peter Parker’s transformation into Spiderman, it was as if Jimenez was morphing into John Daly before my very eyes.

However, for some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t help but watch him. Sure we followed Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy and Lee Westwood and Martin Kaymer but none of them had the same appeal as Jimenez. The guy is like your fat friend who is hilarious without trying. Imagine this token character possessing better than average golf skills and you’ve got a rough approximation of Miguel. Hell, his name is Miguel, close enough to call him Mike or better yet, Fat Mike. When I caught him going into the clubhouse locker room after his last round on the final day, I managed to get an autograph. Up close, he is every bit as crabby looking as he appears from a distance. His signature was the equivalent of a dash on the page, a clear indicator that he’d rather be doing something else. Surely, signing autographs for chuckleheads like me is the last thing most athletes enjoy doing but then again, many men Jimenez’s age (47) have a bumper-sticker that says “I’d Rather Be Golfing”. However, even when he’s golfing, Jimenez looks like he’d rather be someplace else.

Fat Mike finished 40^th. Woods didn’t do much better, barely making the top twenty. The highlight of his play came on the first day during (look out, golf parlance ahead) the final approach when, instead of laying up like everybody else, Woods ambitiously drove past the dogleg, getting eagle on the hole. If you’re golf knowledge is comparable to mine pre-DDC, that means he risked hitting his ball in the water, didn’t, and then got the ball in the hole long before anyone else. Everyone cheered uproariously but most people hadn’t been following Tiger around for the last few holes like we had. If they had been, they would’ve realized that this improbably gamble did little to pad Woods abysmal play from earlier in the day.

The tourney ended with a nice come from behind win by Alvaro Quiros. On the last day, Quiros took advantage of everyone else’s crummy performance and decided to play an unbelievable round of golf, the likes of which would be difficult if not impossible to repeat. In recognition of his win, Quiros took him the tidy sum of $419,000. Not bad for four days work.

Roof Shoot

Over the next few days, I will be posting several new pieces about my activities of late. Expect one post every day for the next week or so.

On February 6^th, I finally managed to make my way to the top of a skyscraper adjacent to campus to do some long exposure photography. Dealing with the guards was a little tricky. It took three separate attempts and conversations with everyone all the way up to the building manager to get someone to unlock the door to the roof but in the end it was worth it.

The grouchy guard responsible for supervising me said nothing on our ride to the 40^th floor. Once there, he tersely told me that I had only ten minutes. Great, I thought. Just enough time to take about three good photos. As it turned out, the “long” exposures I was searching for turned out to only be about fifteen seconds each because of the amount of light available. In my planning, I neglected to account for the fact that I am smack dab in the middle of a giant city and there is no shortage of light floating around.

The view from the top was impressive, but less so than I had imagined. Situated in a funny little nook within an upper tier (we weren’t near the actual ledge of the building) the view was slightly restricted and so photos were long shots or nothing at all. At one point in the shoot, as I stood impatiently, hands on hips, the guard asked for a smoke. A nonsmoker, I repaid his less-than-cheerful demeanor with a Roth family maxim: “Oohgots”, I said. While he had no idea what that meant, he understood that I didn’t have any cigarettes, at least none I wanted to share. Minutes later, I packed up my things, careful not to leave anything behind and I nodded towards the door. Down the elevator we went.

Click here for a link to one of the shots from the roof shoot. 

Things Aren't Rough All Over

The following is an email I sent to my parents upon returning from spring break in Nepal. In eight days, I saw more than can be described in sufficient detail so this is the next best replacement.

First off, thank you so much for letting me go to Nepal. I did my best to keep in contact while I was there to let you know of my whereabouts/safety. 

I should also say that Nepal was one of the most valuable travel experiences I've ever had. I expected it to be a good trip, maybe a little relaxing but definitely a nice change from Dubai. What I did not expect, however, was how much it would affect me. People I have talked to say visiting a third-world country for the first time is always memorable. They are correct. Until last week, the "developing world" was, for me, something IR majors talk about in the abstract. All the well-to-do first-worlders sit around and pontificate about what is best for the world's poor and occasionally someone like PJ O'Rourke will point out how silly and unmerited such unwelcome advice is but on the whole, everyone nods in enthusiastic agreement that, yes, we should definitely, definitely send some knowledgeable kids with bachelor degrees over there to teach those ignorant Nepalis about proper family planning and good farming techniques. 

While there, we met some of those knowledgeable kids with bachelor degrees. They were vacationing in Nepal, on break from their Peace Corps stint in Kenya. They seemed to have reached the same conclusion as me: that the difference between first-world and third-world cannot be bridged with good intentions. Only time (and lots of it) will help an undeveloped country reach its full potential and this can come a variety of ways: ugly war, tedious politics, or simple laissez-faire policies that simply allow a country to mind its own damn business and grow at its own pace. 

At USD, there is a the ever-popular $2-a-day-challenge. This consists of people not showering for a day, camping out in the grass using whatever blankets they already have for shelter, and eating only a maximum of $2 worth of food. No other spending is allowed. Afterwards everyone gets together to reflect on what they learned. Maybe there will be a slideshow with depressing pictures of starving Africans and everyone will suddenly be 'enlightened' to the world's poverty. "Wow," they sigh, "I never knew two-thirds of the world's population lived like this". They all feel more aware of other people's realities but more than that, they feel lucky to live in America. If they're like me, they'll say an extra prayer and maybe toss an extra buck or two in the donation basket at church but they're not about to call up OXFAM and give their credit card number. 

After going to Nepal and being a tourist for 8 days, I actually feel better about the state of the world. On our 4-day trek, we walked through dozens of villages and past hundreds of farmhouses. Every person from the smallest baby to the oldest, most gnarled woman was living on less than $2 per day. And guess what? They didn't stare at us longingly as we passed, waiting for us to throw them scraps to ease their gnawing hunger. There were no flies buzzing around their crusted eyes and I saw not one exposed rib. Inconceivable, right? First-worlders visit Nepal and they aren't set upon by starving beggars? Quite the contrary. The majority of the people we saw looked like they were doing fine. Sure, their houses are in danger of being swallowed by a landslide but have you ever heard of a little place called Aldercrest? Away from the countryside, in Kathmandu, I saw a fair share of beggars but no more than you'd find at one time under the Burnside Bridge. Maybe Portland doesn't have street-children hawking knick-knacks for a living but if they did, I'd bet they didn't speak 3 languages like the ones we saw. When one boy effortlessly switched from English to Spanish to Nepali like the one we met did, I got a much better feeling about Nepal's future. 

Yes, things in Nepal could be better. Yes, there is corruption. Yes, we the fortunate have a responsibility to share our wealth to help the less fortunate. However, there are limits. Extreme poverty exists but you won't find it in the typical manner wherever you go. Having been to Nepal, I better understand that the world is not some teeming mass of deprived and depraved plebes all fighting tooth and nail for scraps. Poverty doesn't mean you're on the brink of death by starvation. Go back to the summer's in the backyard on Laurel Road but spend more time in the garden and build a few more planter-boxes. Grow your own vegetables and take a cold bath in the stream. Maybe life on $2-a-day (or less) isn't so bad.

Delinquency

As you've most likely noticed, I haven't posted in almost a month. Don't worry, I'm not dead. I've been writing like a madman, just not for my blog.

I've been doing plenty of concert reviews and other pieces. I've provided the links below if you'd like to check them out. Full stories will come later.

The links:

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/03/01/photo-gallery-dubai-international-jazz-festival-night-1/

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/03/01/concert-review-dubai-international-jazz-festival-night-1/

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/01/30/mario-reyes-in-dubai-concert-review/

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/01/25/album-review-go-find-your-love-by-sea-fever/

http://www.usdradio.org/2011/01/23/6946/

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=9B3F60D5E51E0720

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=A782D87161ADDBC6

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=CAD507AA56099100

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=038C9493F46DAE2E

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=829683B2A7E31953

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=EA894358B9B076C5

http://www.thinkflash.ae/blogdetails.aspx?key=804FF685F8807C2D

In the meantime, here is an abbreviated list of what I've been seeing/doing:

• Sneaking into skyscrapers to shoot urban landscapes
• Seeing Tiger Woods and sitting VIP at the Dubai Desert Classic
• Interviewing Train
• Going to a Tiesto concert
• Watching Djokovic and Federer at the Dubai Duty Free Tennis Championships
• Attending IDEX, the Middle East's largest exhibition for arms dealers
• Camping in the Omani mountains
• Visiting friends in Abu Dhabi

Stay tuned.

A Tale of Two Cities: Part Two

By the time we returned from the club, it was close to 4:00 in the morning. Our original group of fifteen had dispersed to the point that only my roommate and I returned to campus. In the room, I sat on the bed and reflected on the night’s events. As I relived the club, the ride home, the walk up to the room, and my present state, my thoughts shifted to my plans for the immediate future.

Damn. I’d forgotten. I was leaving for Oman in half an hour.

Plans for the trip had been made well in advance but we hadn’t really discussed them much. The only reminder of the trip was a text message I’d gotten earlier in the evening, determining our ETD of five o’clock a.m. I crammed some things in a backpack, barely conscious of what they were and headed out the door.

Moments later, I was sitting shotgun with Syed in his taxi, going at least 400 miles per hour over the 300 mile per hour speed limit on our way to the bus station. It must have been a good morning for things that defy physics, as Syed’s voice somehow issued forth from the stifling thickness of his beard. He may as well have been speaking to me with a pillow over his face. He was certainly driving like one was.

The sun still wasn’t up when we got to the station. We got tickets and boarded, settling in for the ride. I slept like the dead for a few hours before I was awoken. We’d reached the border and everyone was getting off the bus. I groggily followed suit, bypassing the giddy tourists snapping pictures of one another in front of the “majestic” landscape of hazy rocks rising in the distance. With a sour look on my face, I waited my turn in line, praying for a quick stamp on my passport so I could continue sleeping.

With my passport stamped, I was officially checked out of the UAE. I got on the bus and dozed off. Sweet sleep swept over me for five glorious seconds before I was awoken. Again, everyone was disembarking, this time, bringing their bags with them. Deciding it would be better to join them than attempt to hide in the back of the bus, I dragged myself after the line of travelers.

I should take this opportunity to provide some context for the reader. In the West, the concept of borders has been around for a long time. Native Americans were confounded by the white man’s enthusiasm for fences. For American settlers in the early 1800’s, discussion of property ranked alongside beef jerky and not getting cholera as people’s favorite things. This attitude was brought over from Britain where it has long been a topic of discussion for everyone from William Wallace to Wallace and Gromit. During the Age of Imperialism, Western powers were more than happy to share (read: impose) this structure of property rights on Middle Easterners, to whom the idea was – literally – completely foreign. Thus, it’s no surprise that ‘countries’ is an idea the Middle East is still getting used to.

This was made tangible for me as I got off the bus for the second time in 10 minutes. Bag in hand, I followed the crowd to the long table where guards opened each bag and half-heartedly poked around inside, before handing the luggage back to the traveler. Assuming everyone present (included me) had done this a million times before, the guards waited for our group of travelers to put our bags in a line on the pavement. I overheard someone say this was so the dogs could sniff around for explosives, drugs, porn, democracy, and other-things frowned upon in the Middle East. A moment later, a black lab puppy bounded out from behind the bus and galloped up and down the line of bags, wagging its tail excitedly. I’ve never seen a dog trained for this sort of thing but I’d always imagined a regal looking German Shepherd, the canine equivalent of Johnny Cash, boldly cruising through, sniffing discerningly. Instead, we had Clay Aiken doing the job.

Everyone’s bags passed the inspection and we reboarded. I fell asleep again. That lasted all of five seconds. For the third time, we unloaded, heading for the Omani checkpoint where we’d be stamped into the country. Note that thirty minutes prior, we’d been stamped out of the UAE and we were just now being stamped into Oman. This means for half an hour, we weren’t anywhere. Like I said, they’re still getting this whole border-thing down.

A few hours later, we arrived in Muscat, the capitol of Oman. At first glance, the place didn’t inspire high expectations. I’m unsure what I expected from the place but whatever it was, it wasn’t right there in front of me. Maybe it was because I was tired but my first impression of Oman wasn’t bright. This wasn’t helped by our shyster cab-driver, determined to take us for a ride, literally and figuratively. The hotel we checked into was a total dump. Muscat was off to a bad start and we’d only been there an hour.

Things began to look up quickly though. Our group of seven travelers got lunch and noting the practice of the local patrons, I joined them in eating with my hands. Unlike Dubai, everyone was speaking Arabic. There was no Urdu, Pashtun, or Tagalog floating around, giving the place a much more local feel. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dubai’s diversity but it’s a bit of a surprise when you go several days without seeing a local. Oman was different. Everyone was from Oman. Hell, everyone except us was from Muscat. It was a good indicator. If there were a lot of locals, it must be a nice place to live.

Sparing too much detail, we wandered the souks (flea-market) and took pictures. Shamelessly, we snapped photos, not caring how cliché we looked with our bags and straps hanging all over. All we were missing were fold-up maps and Birkenstocks. Being a port-town, the area we were in - called Mutrah - was accustomed to Westerners. This was made evident through Aziz and Kalpan, a couple of septuagenarian Muscatis. Wandering the street, they waved us over to their table where they were enjoying cups of chai. This is what I had been waiting for: authentic people from the Middle East who wanted to talk to Westerners. Yes, it sounds corny but there’s something about making a connection with a local that makes you feel like less of a tourist. Aziz bought us all chai and for almost an hour, we sat and chatted, most of it in broken English. For the first time since I’d been in the Middle East, I actually got to use my Arabic skills. “Skills” is generous. I attempted to explain that we had two “orfas fee fanookee” (my version of “rooms in our hotel”) for “thalatha benat wa arbaa ibns” (“three girls and four guys”). It was a pitiful attempt but I was finally not speaking English. It felt pretty good.

Before we departed, we got some pictures with our new friends, as well as some wisdom including 1) we all have one God 2) shake hands with someone if you take their picture, and 3) don’t go to Yemen or you’ll be stabbed. Feeling encouraged and enlightened, we set out for our hotel. The group came to a consensus that our hotel was too crummy for our needs and we wanted a new one even if that meant searching for a place after dark. This turned out to be another adventure that introduced us to Aiman.

Aiman is one of approximately 500,000 cab drivers in Muscat. This is surprising as the city’s population is only about 600,000. With the market for taxis as saturated as it is, it isn’t uncommon to see boys of 16 behind the wheel of a late-model Toyota, spinning wildly through roundabouts, honking liberally attempting to attract the attention of potential fares. This system is only sustainable for so long as eventually, everyone in the country will own a taxi, including the royal family as well as newborns.

What set Aiman apart from the other cabbies (like the one from earlier in the day) was his notable lack of swindlerism. He drove us to the wrong place, but didn’t charge us for it. The hotel he recommended wasn’t offering rooms at the price he quoted us, but he didn’t charge us for the detour. In fact, it took 45 minutes of driving around and he didn’t charge us any more than if we’d gone in a straight shot to our final destination. At the hotel, he even helped me negotiate the price for two rooms.

The rest of the evening was calm. We said farewell to Aiman, promising to call him in the morning and went upstairs to relax. For the first time since we’d been in the Middle East, our group could socialize in a private coed environment. Things we take for granted back in the US are not allowed here. One such activity is watching movies with the opposite sex. Of course, we can all shell out thirty dirham and go to the theatre but that means a metro ride and stiff, upright seating. Here in the privacy of our hotel suite, we could splay out on couches, eat what we wanted, talk when we liked, and change the channel as we pleased. It was nice to do that again and we made the most of it.

The next morning, we took off early, hitching a ride with Aiman to the royal palace. There, we promised to call him when we needed a ride to the bus station and began exploring. The palace complex is pretty much what anyone would expect from a country like Oman. Unlike the National Mall in DC, you can see the entirety of the place in about thirty minutes and there are no schoolchildren running about, splashing in the Reflecting Pool. There are no hot-dog vendors and no tour groups with overweight ladies sporting fanny-packs. In fact, the place was mostly empty aside from ourselves.

We wandered around to the back of the palace and were surprised by what we saw. The palace commands 

a surprising piece of real estate at the top of a natural bay. Steep slopes plunge down either side, allowing just enough room for the Royal Yacht Club on one side and a military outpost on the other. The palace is separated from the water by a large patio featuring several bright orange anti-aircraft guns. I couldn’t help but think if they’d ever been used.

For the remainder of the day, we wandered the city, eventually making our way back to the main area near the souks. We called Aiman and rode into the main part of town to catch our bus. In a complete junior-varsity display of responsibility, I managed to misplace my bus pass and had to buy a new one. I’m glad I did as I would have paid $15 for the conversation I had with the man at the ticket office regardless of my need for a ticket. A native Omani, he was an old, wrinkly fellow but his mind was sharp. His English was better than mine and he was well-read on current events, telling me things about California I didn’t even know. It boggled my mind that he was working at a bus station. I’m sure he could’ve taught college courses and I’d only interacted with him for a few minutes.

The bus ride back sucked. I won’t go into detail other than the purgatory of the UAE-Omani border was even more miserable the second-time. I considered asking the driver if I could take the wheel for a few hours just so I could have some more legroom but figured my intent would be lost in translation and I’d be detained as a hijacker.

We made it home weary but I couldn’t sleep just yet. There was a crisis waiting for me.