TravelStream™ news feed for member nomadic on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/nomadic en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 08 Jun 2008 06:41:17 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212539820/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212539820/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212539820/tpod.html Sun, 08 Jun 2008 06:41:17 -0400 On the Edge in Bonn

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Bonn, Germany

Last night, as I suspected - was a blast.  Perhaps not the best use of the word given that I was seated next to a woman who lives in Iraq, but there you are.  She was a plucky sort, so I am sure she would approve.  Ten of us prowled the city centre of Bonn in drizzle last night in search of an atmospheric place to dine.  It was a shame about the weather, as the town's squares dotted with pretty umbrella cafes would have looked enticing in some evening sunshine.  Sadly the umbrellas were not enough to shield all of from the rain, so we dug ourselves a loud hole right at the back of a traditional German restaurant.  Complete with barrel shaped staff with moustaches and customers in black leather.  Perfect. I had lasted about 4.2 seconds at the Deutsche Welle reception earlier.  I really DID NOT fancy being stuffed into a small space to listen to more German speeches and back slapping, not to mention the Deutsche Welle choir!  It was all a bit surreal seeing the war weary of Zimbabwe and Afghanistan sipping wine and foot tapping to strains of German classical song.  I had a "GET ME THE F OUT OF HERE" moment and managed to sort a taxi to remove me pretty damn schnell (see yesterdays thoughts on taxis). Others in the group stayed on, but I detected not to their benefit, so I was smug about my hour or two reprieve in my kitsch hotel room (at least until the food arrived).  They had of course, already dined on Deutsche Welle's fine foods, so the English translation of the menu in the establishment was more entertainment and did not serve as a means to an end.  With dishes like "Housewives with Onions" and "Halve a chicken, which is not really half a chicken" and "Hogs head, like your mama makes", I was not really surprised that I didn't enjoy my pan of undercooked broccoli swimming in tasteless melted cheese.  The addition of salt and pepper improved the flavour by 1000%.  Nuff said. But the beer was great, and flowed well, as did the life stories and the tears of laughter.  Working from home can be a lonely, and it was a complete delight to be with people who are in my line of work and more importantly who "get it". Apparently I slept through the enormous bangs and flashes that ripped through the skies of Bonn last night, but at least I was able to use my school girl German with " wir haben donner und blitzen" to good effect.  The weather here has been very unusual, with temperatures yesterday reaching 34̊ .  I blame the international conference on climate change myself.  Clearly the green Germans have turned up the heat in the city to make a point.  I imagine they have large patio heaters, tucked away in the outskirts of the city, blasting into the German atmosphere.  I KNOW they have the technology.  Vorsprung Durch Technic.  I have SEEN the millions of wind turbines littering the countryside as the plane landed.  Very smart these guys.   And more sunshine today provided an excellent opportunity to take a stroll along the Rhine.  It has GOT to be done, hasn't it?  Everyone seems very happy here, and the stroll was only made uncomfortable by the heat and my heavy navy blue suit.  A host of golden Labradors bounced around their owners, small children played, old couples ambled hand in hand, and young fishermen with pasty torsos, striped off their shirts in the heat.   I did ponder why for a Tuesday afternoon, no body was at work, but shut up once we discovered the "Heppy Garden", which hand sand and deck chairs and beer, and yet more "heppy heppy" people. I was sad to leave Bonn after such a short time, but the conference was good, the company very worth the visit and my impressions of Bonn are very favourable (it must be my age).  I am not sad that I missed the organised boat trip this evening, but as a Palestinian delegate pointed out - four hours trapped on a boat with German music would be "bloody hell". (I feel bad now.  Check out Rhine river cruises for more details.  I'm sure it could be great with the right people....) A completely different adventure to New York in weeks to come......
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Bonn, Germany

It's nearly the end of my first full day in Bonn.  To say I haven't exactly explored what this Small Town in Germany has to offer yet, would be an understatement - but I have been busy, and I AM here on business not as a tourist. My Zen evening alone in my kitsch room (lovingly described yesterday) was interrupted by the arrival of my friend and co-conspirator (in terms of strategic communications) at 11pm.  Luckily the hotel had given me a key, otherwise his gerney would have come to an abrupt end at the locked doors of the hotel.  We searched high and low wandering the deserted Sunday night time streets of Bonn, before we settled on an Irish pub which was across the street from the hotel.  I blame my friend and the delightfully friendly bar tender, who had the beauty of a Freya (German goddess of love, who I would assume was no back end of a bus) and the charm of the Irish (perfect job for her then).    When I got back to my spinning 1970's room of orange and brown at 2am, I made the mistake of leaving handfuls of facetious remarks on the blogcatalogue discussion boards.  So I wasn't exactly bright eyed and bushy tailed when I met my friend for breakfast in the morning, and was introduced to others who were in my line of business.  Needless to say the breakfast room outdid all my expectations of bad taste.  And the food, as I would have expected was heavy, German and delicious - cheese, bread and gherkins (and, if I wasn't a vegetarian - dried sausages). There should be a sign at the airport, "all ye with notions of weight loss, turn back here".   The ridiculously huge selection of conserves and spreads was enough beg the question "who put the acid in my tee?"  Of which there was over a hundred choices (making me feel like a ninny for bringing my own green tea bags) and a staggering 28 different choices of sugar, set out on a special sugar table.  Nobody NEEDS that much choice.  I am only guessing that someone in the establishment suffers from a bizarre form of OCD.  Despite allegations of mental unwellness - the service and friendliness of the hotel staff was exceptional, and I would thoroughly recommend Am Romerhof to anyone visiting Bonn, who doesn't require plush minimal aesthetics.    Taxis in Bonn seem to arrive almost before you have ordered them and the speed they drive at means you often arrive long before you have departed.  Well, I suppose most of them ARE Mercs, not designed to mosey.   The Conference I am attending here in Bonn is at the World Conference Centre - once Germany's Parliament, now turned global meeting place.  I did feel a little bit for the city, as a gaggle of politicians (this IS the correct collective term, I have checked) banged on about how Bonn would become a global centre.  They must feel a bit abandoned, as an ex-capital city.  Let's hope, like a jilted lover, Bonn will go on and make good and give Berlin a run for its money.     I won't go into details here about the content of the conference, as I have already written about it in my Public Diplomacy blog, and the World Bank very kindly asked me to be a guest blogger for the occasion - so I wrote Blogging for Peace and The Media has a Responsibility?  It's blog madness round my house. The conference (Media in Peacebuilding and Conflict Prevention) was attended by about 500 journalists and "media types" who live and work in some of the worlds toughest places.  It was a moving place to be, and initially everyone who spoke chose to draw attention to their own plight and the oppression of journalists in their own countries.  I think whilst the dynamism and passion was apparent in the room, there was an element of fcked-up-ness which would have been overwhelming for some.   The emotional scars on some faces were pretty clear. Having done my spell under fire in Iraq (and been in some other difficult spots), I am not quite the conflict virgin - so I was far from overwhelmed (strangely, at home in fact).  A small stand outside was hosted by an earnest woman who spoke of dealing with PTSD for journalists.  Adrenaline junkies they may be, but they ARE purveyors of the truth and as Dr Ebadi said in her keynote speech, "journalists are the spokespeople for those suffering human rights abuses". So.  Well.  Heavy stuff.  I am off to explore Bonn this evening with a handful of delegates.  And if what I said above is true (emotional scars, etc) then, in my experience, helping others enjoy a bit of R&R away from a war zone, promises to be a good night out!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212877500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212877500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/5/1212877500/tpod.html Sun, 08 Jun 2008 05:42:24 -0400 On the Edge in Bonn

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Bonn, Germany

The journey here to this very room went with German precision (new word "gerney" - one that goes smoothly and without incident).  I was beginning to come to grips with the lack of laptop and internet and almost enjoying the "back of fag packet" style of writing (NOTHING can stop).  But I was swiftly taken to Cologne by my German-vings hostesses and back into civilisation.  German budget airlines are neat, clean and charcoal grey.  Nothing like their brash and easy contemporaries.  Well done.  Not a scratch card in sight, just a bottle of mineral wasser on disembarking.  The bag first off the conveyor belt (good game, good game) and with a cunning use of "Wo ist dem taxistand" (probably wrong, but it did the trick), I hopped into said vehicle in Cologne and was checking into my in Bonn hotel before I knew what time zone I was in.  And here I am.  Hotel Am Rȍmerhof.  Room number 36.  Quite the most remarkably kitsch place I have ever stayed in.  The room is a pretty bland compared to the rest of the joint.  Bright orange curtains and pink plastic flowers, and the décor can only be described as wood effect Formica tongue and grove cladding.  For some reason the carpet fitters have decided the include a two inch high carpet skirting board right around the room, and I am not sure whether the energy that went into the creation was worth it, but it is fascinating.  There is a silver and blue yin-yang light fitting on the ceiling.  Class.  Downstairs giant butterflies greet you in the foyer and hanks of red velvet are crudely taped to a wall in an attempt to cover up some loose brickwork.  Pictures of giraffes, wavy IKEA mirrors and trinkets and nic naks adorn every corner.  Its gold and tacky and I love it!  After a very friendly (and "English" despite my attempts) check in, within seconds I have my room key, a cold beer, a FREE wireless internet connection and I have managed to order a mushroom Pizza from a local restaurant to be delivered to my room.  Hotel Am Rȍmerhof rocks.   In fact, despite my earlier yearning for adventure/danger, I may just stay in my room for a couple of hours until my friend turns up.  He is, as we speak, enjoying the good karma of a seven hour rail journey across western Europe (not a gerney like mine you can bet).
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Stansted, England, United Kingdom

I hope I am not speaking too soon when I say that Bonn is a lot safer than El Fasher IDP camp in Darfur.  But perhaps you think this is challenge enough for someone like me.  It serves me right for my shameless accounts of life as some adrenaline junkie who specialises in war zones and living dangerously (not true of course - I DO enjoy the periodic toe dipping into danger, but I am largely content with sleepy English Sundays filed with tea, fresh walks in the countryside and a great deal of quiet, safe and unadventurous fireside relaxation).   But as I WAS mentally preparing myself to cavort with Sudan, Germany has to be just a little disappointing (ok - I DID retract my views on Abu Dhabi, so I know what could happen).  So how can I live on the edge in Bonn?    Perhaps I could walk around backwards?  Speak in tongues?  Swear a lot?  Punch people?  I have never even BEEN to Bonn, so I am hugely prejudging its dullness, but I will almost feel let down if it is not full of civil servants with highly polished brown shoes and neat hairdos.  I have done some homework - I know it doesn't even have its own airport.  And I have my Holiday German book, purchased in 1998 as I was about to give birth in an Austrian hospital.    Ich habe Schmerzen.  It didn't help much.   Things haven't run that smoothly today.  I started the day off by turning the fridge freezer upside down.  Apparently it is an ancient remedy for fridge hic-cups.  I can't WAIT to get home to see if it has worked.  Secondly, it rained.  This scuppered plans to sand down a shelf unit, but as I should have been thinking about Germany, probably all too well.  Thirdly BT have completely messed up my broadband installation and I still have no internet connection, not to mention a mobile signal.  Pretty good for a Head of Communications about to blog about a Media Conference....Fourthly, once I got my head around the going to Germany thing (leaving it as late as possible to focus on said trip) I drove away from the house feeling "on my way".  My iPod kindly shuffled me some suitable Nirvana, Linkin Park and the inspiring Green Day performance at Milton Keynes to get me in the mood (although someone threw Gwen Steffani in there to try and knock me off balance). But when I reached Stanstead, feeling all independent and buoyed on in a strangely anarchic fashion I bumped into someone I knew!  My friend from Abu Dhabi, in fact.  I tried to tell him, he was in the WRONG BLOG, but he insisted he was on his way to the very place I would love to be on my way to instead of Bonn (cards.....close....chest....you get the picture).  Then my laptop ran out of juice and I was reduced to writing this in pink pen on the back of "Communications for Stabilisation in Southern Afghanistan" (which I should have been reading).....   ...more tales from the small town in days to come....    
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/3/1206375600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/3/1206375600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/3/1206375600/tpod.html Mon, 31 Mar 2008 04:13:39 -0400 UAE as a holiday detination - not one that immediately springs to mind

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Abu dhabi, United Arab Emirates

Actually it´s not THAT bad.  The good thing is that I feel reasonably comfortable in this part of the world.  I´ve never been to Abu Dhabi before, but have spent time in  Dubai, Qatar, Kuwait and parts of South Asia - so the intense heat, the flora and fauna, the wail of the call to prayer, and the speed and stupidity of the drivers is not foreign to me (a few days ago there was a 235 car pile up here - if five people hadn´t been killed, I would have thought that quite an achievment). http://news.bbc.co.uk/player/nol/newsid_7290000/newsid_7290500/7290536.stm?bw=nb&mp=wm&news=1&nol_storyid=7290536&bbcws=1I feel quite settled already (as Hovis Presley says, "wherever I lay my hat, that's my hat").  It helps that my pals place is full of familiar things.  Having lived in Sri Lanka and Africa her house is filled with authentic ethnic artefacts laced with REAL memories (none of this "get the look at your local Oxfam" nonsense).  And as I have lived in Sri Lanka and with an African man for many years my house is filled with Sri Lankan artefacts laced with meaning too.  The room I have been given houses a magnificent Mombassa four poster and the high walls are covered with classy black and white photos of my friend looking gorgeous at her wedding.  The bed is thrown with Asian hand loom weaves in bright colours.  I have a huge shiny en suite bath room.  I was only sad that my webcam seems to be bust so I couldn´t show off the decadence to my friend on last nights skype call. So back tracking again (I am terribly out of sync always, sorry) - at the airport I trotted past a sea of bearded cabbies and spotted the blondeness of my friend from quite some distance.  It was two in the morning for her and when she told me she was pregnant I felt sorry I had dragged her up for this collection.  Not as bad as I felt when me and my kids bundled into her apartment and woke up her little one, which she nursed until the early hours whilst we snored off our jet lag.   I guess a week on the lash is off then?   Actually fine by me, my kidneys are in a state of recovery and I need to feel fighting fit for my trip to France and onwards to Ethiopia next week (I write this with a glass of legally obtained white wine at my side, however). It was all foggy when we came out of the airport.  Odd.  I don´t quite understand where the fog came from out here in the middle of the desert.  Probably because I lived in Kuwait between July and November I just assume that the whole of the Gulf region is permanently blue skied and hot and dry.  The fog left me bewildered - the moon peeping through a halo haze.  The other thing that really threw me was bird song.   My friend said it may be night jays.  They were making a hell of a racket, even though I told them to go to bed, because it was the middle of the night.  Not an unpleasant sound, more like a sweet warble.  Clever birds, must have realised the gap in the market and filled it quickly with their nocturnal habits.  I wonder if they even know that day time birds exist?  Maybe they think they are the only birds in the village.   Anyway, no one else was interested.  It was two in the morning, as I said. So first day in town, I behaved like a typical ex-pat in said region and headed for the club.  I guess "club" is a fairly generic term.  I best explain.  A large clean blue swimming pool with South Asian staff dishing out towels for plastic sun beds, a Tai or two taking drinks orders on carbon copied notepads, and Philipino´s opening the toilet doors for you in the changing rooms (I am never comfortable with THAT level of service).  The clientele, on this particular day consisted of a few fat white house wives with babies (present company excluded OF COURSE), a 50 something man (with money) and his boob job and tummy tucked (but up close past it) wife, and a VERY bronzed, I-love-my-body bald middle aged man who was fidgeting as he smoked and read his book.  Kept looking over at us and every time he did I said "what an arse" to myself in my mind.  The water was nice and cool, the mango juice reshly squeezed, and the sun bright, I was even ok with the Robbie Williams that was being played.  Oh - and the company (immediate company that is) was exquisite.  I couldn´t care less that the "club" wasn´t actually properly built yet and actually a bit of a building site. It was great to see the Mr of my friend too.  Although he was a pal of my ex husband we still get on pretty well.  We all went out this evening to Caravan for dinner.  It´s a chain I am familiar with and the kids were happy with it.  As buffets go, it wasn´t a patch on the Sri Lankan hotel food that everyone at the table was used to, but let´s face it - it wasn´t Pizza Hut.
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Abu dhabi, United Arab Emirates

Actually.&nbsp; It's really quite nice here.&nbsp; Perhaps the best preparation for a holiday is to convince yourself you will hate the place you are going to.&nbsp; So far, all I have found is evidence to disprove my narrow minded theory.&nbsp; Abu Dhabi really is OK.&nbsp; There is no arrogant decadence of Kuwait City, nor the flashy sort of "brand newness" and lack of cultural depth of Dubai (ok so the cultural depth is&nbsp;perhaps but a millimetre thicker down here).&nbsp; There are actual real shops of the streets, not JUST air conditioned marble coated Malls. &nbsp;As I discovered when I took a walk with the kids this afternoon.&nbsp; Just to explore the "hood" whilst my knackered hostess and her wee'un slept.&nbsp; She pointed out the general direction we should head in (we were ice cream focussed at the time) from her 16th floor apartment.&nbsp; Quite a view from up there and looking straight down made my ankles and toes tingle.&nbsp; From the balcony at the front a splendid array of tower blocks and mosque domes all in silver, blue and black.&nbsp; The same to the right. And in another direction the landscaped gardens of the Al Manhal (palace?) surprisingly situated on Al Manhal street.&nbsp;&nbsp; And there is no shortage of private gardens (nor it seems water to quench them, buckets of the stuff being mismanaged all over the street).&nbsp; Bougainvillea, perhaps my favourite of plants-not-to-be-found-in-England (though I attempted to keep one once, that visible shivered under Cambridge climes) sprouting from every garden wall, and the walk through the city on our first night brought the scent of night jasmine wafting to my nostrils, reminded me of Sri Lankan times.&nbsp; &nbsp;I was impressed at the choice of location for said 16th floor apartment.&nbsp; Rather than opting for a white, European suburb, my friends had chosen well and although you could spot the&nbsp;odd honkey, most of the locals were a real mix of Arab and Asian.&nbsp; So much so I wasted plenty of time trying to work out where people were from, before giving up.&nbsp; Judging by the shop names many of them had been settled in UAE some time (Baghdad Motors, Afghan Trade, and restaurant owners of every nationality).&nbsp; I liked it.&nbsp; I felt strangely at home, despite my fair skin and cute blonde kid.&nbsp; It sort of reminded me of MANY places I had been, both visually and in odour (curry and incense spilling out of doorways as we passed).&nbsp; Nice to see simple things like fruit and veg shops and cluttered Asian stores stuffed with every packet of foodstuff imaginable, brightly coloured sweets, dirty bottles of fizzy drinks, newspapers, all stuffed down impossibly narrow aisles sized for the undernourished.&nbsp; I have a language problem here.&nbsp; Many of the townsfolk I come across are clearly not Arab, but I am assuming (careful) plenty of them Muslim.&nbsp; So I opt for the Assalamualaikum style greeting and the Shukran style thank you, although I clearly heard whiffs of Tamil and at one stage my ears picked up on a bit of Iraqi dialect (well, they were standing outside Baghdad Motors), so I was delighted to be able to offer a "Sabah Alcher", which was greeted with "Sabah Noon".&nbsp; Good.&nbsp; Wouldn't want to get that wrong.&nbsp; It is amazing how, as a "lone female traveller" having kids and making a (slightly pathetic) attempt at not speaking English can make you immediately popular.&nbsp; Does help too, if one of the said kids is as blonde as a beach bum.&nbsp; In most Muslim countries I have been to, I feel universally accepted and respected.&nbsp; Children wave, men ruffle the hair of my kids and offer sweets and silly faces to entertain and women (at least those without burkhas) exchange open and friendly smiles (I'm sure the burkha ones do too...).&nbsp; I wonder how such an obviously non British family would fare walking through an English town?&nbsp; Would they be greeted with such warmth?&nbsp; In fact try walking through a small British twon at chucking out time on a Saturday night and tell me how civilised our&nbsp;nation is.&nbsp; Yuk.&nbsp; Cringe.&nbsp;My friend and I discussed the fact that Abu Dhabi was meant to be world HQ for the Al Q brothers.&nbsp; Not that I saw any sign of them.&nbsp; She said (and she has asked that the quote be attributed to her not me) - "better to be living actually in the wasps nest - I mean, they are not going to shit on their own doorstep".&nbsp; Good point.&nbsp; Frankly, I am not sure that Al Q actually exist.&nbsp; If they do they don't seem particularly elite.&nbsp; Them boys that got caught moments before they could blow anything up in London are allegedly Al Q, as was that very iffy British shoe bomber.&nbsp; Does OBL just let any old nut join Al Q then?&nbsp; I am sure with any half decent terrorist organisation, like the Tamil Tigers you would have to pass some sort of test before you were accepted to represent the group·.imagine what would have happened if some useless half wit had joined the IRA in the good (bad) old days?&nbsp; Can't see it can you?&nbsp; &nbsp;Anyway, so didn't find the "hot bed" of terrorists, not a wasp in sight, just lots of friendly folk instead.&nbsp; I did look in a couple of mosques (well, outside really) and had fun explaining badly to the kids why there were loads of shoes left outside. &nbsp;So we made it to the ice cream place eventually.&nbsp; I was disappointed to see that it was housed in a big fat air conditioned mall. Al Wahdah I believe.&nbsp; Ah-ha - now it is beginning to feel a bit more like the Kuwait City I love to hate.&nbsp; Inside the Mall was space.&nbsp; Far too much space.&nbsp; Spotless shiny marble floors making an excellent squeak and slide play area for my unruly two.&nbsp; Inappropriately dressed brown white folk mingled with burkhas and immaculate Arabs who, because their dish-dashas reached the floor, appeared to hover several inches from the ground.&nbsp; Tall and graceful, they floated and flicked the corners of their headdresses, whilst their wives shopped.&nbsp; Amazing how you can tell that someone is filthy rich, even when they are covered in black from head to foot, but you can.&nbsp; As I am essentially allergic to shopping&nbsp;(retail parks especially bring me out in hives) so such places hold no interest. All the shops are the same - Accessorize, Tammy Girl (what?), Body Shop (not the mechanics from Baghdad this time), and the designer outlets are all there.&nbsp; Maybe the brown white folk like it because they feel more at home here, but I would swap these chilly clean open spaces for the stinky hot street corner shops any day.&nbsp; And I did.&nbsp; Dragging the kids out in the searing heat as soon as we had finished eating our disgustingly decadent ice cream Sundaes and Saturdays (of which I am ashamed).&nbsp;Back in the hood my boys tried to guess the makes of the cars we passed (oh yeah - I forget to mention PARKING - the night we arrived it took us over an hour to find a space·ridiculous).&nbsp; They got fed up with quite how many Toyotas were in town, but we all let out a big Wooaa when we spotted a brand new fuk-off Rolls Royce looking like a slate coloured slab the size of a house, just parked casually on the pavement (would you Adam and Eve it)?&nbsp;This morning we got on a boat and went to visit Lulu island, which is about as touristy as you will get me being on this holiday.&nbsp; I hope my friend wasn't disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm for her new home town (although she described it herself as nice and bland).&nbsp; Lulu island was odd, it has to be said.&nbsp; Again the bulldozer was there, being a familiar feature of the holiday.&nbsp; It was a bit half built to be fair. &nbsp;A bus took us from the boat to the·erm·beach I suppose.&nbsp; &nbsp;The "beach" was a long stretch of what felt like fake sand, neatly dotted with white plastic sun shelters, equidistant at about 100m apart.&nbsp; They house a bin and some white plastic furniture.&nbsp; It was great for a picnic (which we did rather well I thought, even had fresh fruit).&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But it was El Scorchio (and I was slightly rouged from the day before), so I spent the morning under the plastic shelter with not an unpleasant breeze in the air watching the kids splash with a football in the warm sea.&nbsp; When they started playing with&nbsp;a live throbbing jelly fish I thought it might be time to leave (if jelly fish can look angry, this one did).&nbsp; We were getting a bit fed up with the ring of South Asian workmen who appeared to be spending their lunch break quite openly gorping at us.&nbsp; It is not something we are unused to, my friend and I.&nbsp; We remembered fondly the good times in Sri Lanka, when one night as my pal and I sipped wine on her balcony overlooking the Indian Ocean, we looked down to see a man looking up at us having a vigorous wank.&nbsp; It was the way he didn't stop when we noticed him (even when we pointed and laughed) that bothered me most. &nbsp;Quite revolting.&nbsp; Of course these creatures wouldn't dare touch themselves in such a way on Emirati soil I am sure, but the thought was there I am sure.&nbsp;So it's back to "the club" tomorrow for more cultural excitement I think.&nbsp; At least we will be free from wankers and music will&nbsp;drown out the sound of excavator digging.&nbsp; My new favourite radio station is UAE Radio 2.&nbsp; I had forgotten all about Cool and the Gang, and I was reminded that Paul MacCartney was not such a musical genius when he recorded "That Girl is Mine" with Michael Jackson.&nbsp; The station has however caused an argument over whether the Angel <i>lives in the Centre Fold, or whether the Angel <i>is in the Centre Fold.&nbsp;
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Abu dhabi, United Arab Emirates

I am becoming slightly uneasy about my lack of (entirely predicted) exploration of Abu Dhabi.&nbsp; I did glance at a tourist map last night and realised that there actually might be more to see in this place than expected.&nbsp; But I am flying back to England tomorrow so I have told myself that it was "quiet alright" under the circumstances to make another trip to "the Club".&nbsp; I blame the kids myself - such unimaginative tourists.&nbsp; So, a travel blog by someone who quite unashamedly has no intention of fully exploring the place she is in, is unusual indeed.&nbsp; Although I like to think that the glimpses of Abu Dhabi that I do have to offer are real nuggets of experience and may even tell you a lot more about this place than an earnest description (even if interlaced with historical fact) about the Fort or erm....other tourist places which I haven´t discovered.&nbsp;The Club was much the same as it was on Monday.&nbsp; Not much progress on the building work and bulldozers lay sleeping alongside more fat white people.&nbsp; Although a stunning slender brown person came and sat next to me.&nbsp; Me and my companion tried to work out whether she was trying to make herself "look good", or was she perhaps a lipstick lesbian or a pickpocket?&nbsp; Either way it was quite unexplainable why she would have chosen to stretch out her fine form alongside three noisy children when there was at least a hundred other empty sunbeds to choose from.&nbsp; She smiled her pretty smile a lot at me, so I concluded that she had mistaken me for someone famous and smiled back.&nbsp;My companion and I had the burkha/hijab conversation again.&nbsp; She was very convincing and won the argument on her use of "dogma", but I always feel pleased at being able to articulate at least the other side of the argument a little.&nbsp; I do have a friend who took up the veil and spoke often of how it liberated her.&nbsp; I told my hostess about this, and the African tribes things, but she was having none of it.&nbsp; She won the debate fair and square I think with her view that it wasn´t essentially not for a woman to take on the responsibility of man´s desire.&nbsp; Fair point.&nbsp; I had a glass of wine to celebrate.&nbsp;Actually walking later in the day I saw a burkha clad being and was SURE it was a man.&nbsp; Something about the gait, that betrayed the maleness.&nbsp; Also the fact that it was hailing a taxi seemed rather contrary to what I had been led to believe.&nbsp; And big hands.&nbsp; It had big manly hands.&nbsp; Could this be the evidence of the terrorist hot bed that I have been looking for?&nbsp; I am reliably (?) told that criminals in the UK are using burkhas to conceal stolen goods.&nbsp; Imagine.&nbsp; I always used a raincoat with sewn in pockets - just think what you could stash in a burkha?&nbsp; Just more anti burkha propaganda I think (I say this despite being persuaded today that said garment IS the work of the devil).&nbsp;Taking of the work of the devil.&nbsp; In today´s Gulf News there was an article on how several "foreign" women had confessed to witchcraft and were being suitably punished by the Emirati authorities.&nbsp; Apparently they were begging and knocking on peoples doors asking for money.....clearly the habits of a witch if ever I saw them.&nbsp; This place is getting odder and more intriguing for sure.&nbsp;Apart from the male with the veil, our walk this evening was fairly unremarkable.&nbsp; I found a newspaper and bought the kids some luminous pop and chatted as much as polite society would allow to the Asian shopkeepers.&nbsp; There seems to be lots of tailoring shops around here and motor spares shops (I mentioned Baghdad Motors more than once I think).&nbsp; Not two industries that you would think naturally sat together well (unless you want fitted seat covers for your Hummer). Only Ahma Opticals stood out as being different next to Al Zeen Tyres and Said Abad Tailoring.&nbsp;This evening the whole bunch of us together with a friend (who was clearly not enjoying living in the UAE very much) went for supper.&nbsp; It was another buffet occasion of Asian persuasion.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The kids loved it and I marvelled at our British-ness as ALL FOUR adults present witnessed a cockroach making it´s way across the salad bar and shrugged our shoulders and mumbled in a frankly embarrassed way "oh....I think it will probably be alright".&nbsp; Being the canny lass that I am I went for the hot food (it´s what it says to do in guide books), but the others crunched into their salads in a very on-the-edge fashion I thought.&nbsp; Respect.&nbsp;So, a good last night in Abu Dhabi.&nbsp; In good company, drinking good wine and with a warm evening stroll across a very civilised city. Sometime soon I may write about my uneventful journey home (or I may not of course).&nbsp; You can bet I will be back on line, however to record my impending visits to Ethiopia and Sudan (France I will keep to myself if you don´t mind).
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195758600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195758600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195758600/tpod.html Mon, 24 Mar 2008 15:16:15 -0400 Into Afghanistan - my first official trip not working for the government. Freedom to blog at last. (Transcribed from my notebook, backs of fag packets and chocolate wrappers).

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Kabul, Afghanistan

I am now sitting on Emirates soil once more awaiting my final leg home (although the final leg, and to be honest the most challenging, will be navigating the M25 in my Landrover minus a wing mirror).&nbsp; Simon kept interrupting my last flow of writing last time&nbsp;(not unwelcome) to talk about Paddy Ashdown and the Balkans - Paddy is tipped to be the new all singing and dancing figurehead in Afghanistan (EU, NATO and UN all in one).&nbsp;On my arrival, after meeting Simon at the grey grids of&nbsp;portacabins which make up the UNAMA buildings in Kabul we went to the hotel for a quick freshen up. &nbsp;I was thrilled not to be staying in a swanky personality free 5 star hotel. &nbsp;The Heetal was (I hoped) an Afghan style lodgehouse with rooms arranged around a courtyard strewn with tables and chairs, for those brave enough to bathe in the winter sunshine - bright and piercing, but as warm as ice. &nbsp;The rooms were basically furnished with Afghan wooden furniture (what am I talking about, you can bet it was from China), and each had a small study area with a desk looking into the courtyard. &nbsp;It was the type of place a journalist would stay and kid themselves they were getting a taste of Afghan life by talking to a waiter or two (who are Nepalese or Hazari, or both).&nbsp; This was certainly no place for a diplomat and when I learnt that my former colleagues at the British Embassy were forbidden from taking the taxis we were using to get around this city, I felt two things.&nbsp; Firstly - afraid and somewhat vulnerable, that I was no longer protected by the motherland, da governmunt, and my employer for the past decade.&nbsp; And Secondly - free to explore, say what I want, and to take risks according to my own measure of common sense (and more so retrospectively, as no harm ACTUALLY did befall us).&nbsp; On balance it was a good feeling.&nbsp; &nbsp;Later on my first evening we dined (hosted by our gracious JCMB contact) with a charming French man and his talkative British side kick visiting from Brussels NATO, along with a terrible well spoken NATO spokesperson (shouldn't that always be the case - I bet it's not?).&nbsp; The spokesman was showing signs of wear and tear after nearly a year in Kabul (although perhaps he was always sharp, direct and cynical who knows, but my Iraq experience has taught me that these characteristics become particularly pronounced the more time spent in a war zone and surrounded by disparate international organisations that sit clumsily together). &nbsp;Dinner was tasty Malay in highly polished 5 star style, but certainly not the atmospherics I was after.&nbsp; Simon knew everyone at the table (with the exception of the French man) and a heated debate about media and communications in every conflict zone from Bosnia to Baghdad ensued.&nbsp; Later the spokesman took us to the Gandamac bar where he said we might find some journalists (not that I am in any way a journo groupie BTW), but actually we found some drunk security contractors instead.&nbsp; The spokesman drunk whisky (accidentally with tonic in it), swore a LOT and shared snippets of his Baghdad days.&nbsp; We had friends in common and I was able to chip in from time to time with my brief-but-life-changing-time in Basra (you see I am not quite the conflict virgin).&nbsp;The Gandamac was a place with far more style than the Serena where we dined.&nbsp; Guns hung on cinnamon walls and I could almost feel the marks left by the war tourists passing through ('tis said that some on-the-edge journalists plotted their own kidnaps in that place).&nbsp; It had lashings of antique Afghan charm, which I understand from supper with Rory Stewart the following evening, is rapidly being exported. &nbsp;<i>And here my journal entries end.&nbsp; I shouldn't really add to the scribbles for fear of loosing it's authenticity as a REAL TIME blog, but I should say something about the following evening.&nbsp; It was hard to beat the night at the Gandamac (too many gins, war stories and definite loss of headscarf), but the next night we had supper at the old Fort - home of Rory Stewart, who runs the Turquoise Foundation (along with a lovely American girl called Anna).&nbsp; An evening to be remembered (and not because I drunk less wine), but because I felt the romance of escapism.&nbsp; Dinner in a medieval Afghan fortress, seated on velvet floor cushions around a revolving table laden with delicious foodstuff (lush mashed potatoes thing going on there), and surrounded by SO many good looking people, is hard to beat.&nbsp; It does sound like the settings of a porn movie, I grant you - but trust me, it was class, even if I was a little unusually quiet (coming out of my Foreign Office shell you see).&nbsp; &nbsp;(To be frank, I had no idea who Rory was till I Googled him (as you will too, I'm sure).&nbsp; I was given a copy of his book and then I heard him delivering Schubert on Desert Island Disks - I can't escape him..&nbsp; He has his own entry on Wikipedia for godsake, AND he is only 34! Don't you hate that?)
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195751160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195751160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195751160/tpod.html Mon, 24 Mar 2008 15:15:48 -0400 Into Afghanistan - my first official trip not working for the government. Freedom to blog at last. (Transcribed from my notebook, backs of fag packets and chocolate wrappers).

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Kabul, Afghanistan

Thursday 22 November 2007About 09:00 and I am sitting on the UN flight on the runway in Kabul.&nbsp; I was interrupted enjoying my lime soda yesterday by an Australian man who wanted me to share a bottle of wine with him.&nbsp; As I was waiting for Simon, (Albany's Director) to finish bonding with his former Royal Marine chum inside the restaurant (it was taking a while), I took him up on the offer and had half a glass and whilst he had the rest.&nbsp; He had a weathered, jaded look from being in Helmand Province too long.&nbsp; Down near Kandahar he worked "In Security", protecting those involved in counter narcotics (trying to quell production of opiates from poppies.&nbsp; Useless fact of the day - 92% of Europe's heroin originates from Afghanistan - I learnt that speech writing for Dr Kim Howlers ).&nbsp; Like&nbsp;others I have met on my short trip here, an individual with more stories to tell than you could wave a stick at.&nbsp; Not long ago he was running a medical practice in Australia (he was a doctor) but has since turned his hand to help an Afghan woman escape the wrath of a ruthless warlord across the Pakistan border with the cunning use of a donkey and a burkha (that old trick, eh?)&nbsp; Like many, he was candid about his experiences.&nbsp; Wrapped in an Afghan scarf and with a shaven head betraying his middle age receded hair line I saw straight to the nub of his vulnerability.&nbsp; He shared with me an extraordinary moment, explained as life "getting to him", he described how the previous week he had pushed his fist through the window of a taxi in blind rage in a haggle over an inflated fare.&nbsp; He understood it was time for a break, and having done a spot of trauma psychology I knew his behaviour to be "not unusual" and he took comfort in my understanding (and the surprisingly good red wine no doubt).&nbsp; He told me a lot of good things about him to even out the taxi cab madness.&nbsp; Of how he cared for several street children in Kabul, and of how their plight moved him. Then he was gone and the connection lost.&nbsp; I joined Simon and had an altogether different back-slapping sort of conversation with two military gents about the UN's function in Afghanistan.&nbsp;I am flying over Afghanistan now, looking down at the vast stretches of brown grey jagged mountains as far as the eye can see.&nbsp; Hundred and hundreds of miles of inhospitable terrain without so much as a spec of dull green.&nbsp; Every so often a pathetic trail of river, like a hair line scar dwarfed by the magnificent mountain range, with tiny mute villages clinging to the shore.&nbsp; Pin pricks of human existence in an otherwise alien like environment.&nbsp; Why anyone decided to settle in Afghanistan is completely beyond me.&nbsp; It is a land for gods and giants, clearly (but again really only appreciated from an aeroplane).When we landed in Kabul a few days ago, the flight had banked sharply and our decent into Kabul was steep (although nothing like my dive into Baghdad last year).&nbsp; Upon landing I could see that the grey brown colour I see from the air covers the whole city in a fine layer of dust.&nbsp; Like aged actors, the powder filled wrinkles and cracks, turned Kabuls inhabitants into caricatures.&nbsp;I understood the lack of green from above, although some scraps of life were evident - one street was lined with roses in bloom, their vibrancy dulled by a film of filth.&nbsp;I was met from the plane by a bearded man bearing a card with my name (there's me trying to be all inconspicuous).&nbsp; He was perfectly happy to answer my many questions about life in Afghanistan (I set to work quickly), but less thrilled to hear about it was the young Spainish girl who had just arrived to work as an administrator for the UN.&nbsp; Her first assignment overseas.&nbsp; As the driver described (in a too casual, lighthearted tone I felt) the antics of the "drugged up insane Pakistani" suicide bomber the previous day, I could smell her fear.&nbsp; The driver told me how life in the east of the country was better, and of how his own life was in real danger by working for the UN.&nbsp; His colleague in the passenger seat agreed.&nbsp; With a big smile full of blacked out teeth, he turned to me "Yes!&nbsp; Very danger indeed!"&nbsp; Oh.&nbsp; Right - surely not&nbsp;an Afghan adrenaline junkie?&nbsp; He seems delighted with his plight.&nbsp; They then gave a graphic description of how the brave Afghan police had grabbed yesterday's failed suicide bomber (now that is a crap thing to have on your CV)&nbsp;and literally pulled him apart holding&nbsp;a limb each.&nbsp; I think it was a test....I was intrigued and asked for more details please ( I passed).&nbsp; The Spanish girl let out a whimper. By this stage the pair couldn't contain their laughter and giggled all the way speaking a mixture of (oh god I am going to get this wrong I know) Pashto and English about this foolish failed martyr from across the border.&nbsp;&nbsp; They were clearly, proud as punch (and rightly so) about the bravery of the Afghan police.&nbsp;When the plane had landed (terribly out of sequence this, but I keep remembering things I consider important), the women on board covered their heads with scarves they had at the ready.&nbsp; I didn't ask much about this before I came here, but I wore a scarf around my neck just in case and quickly filed in line.&nbsp; The accepted form for western women is to cover&nbsp;heads in public, but inside missions or in some hotels they could be uncovered.&nbsp; The odd lock is permitted to drift into sight.&nbsp; I actually feel a bit more comfortable leaving in on, especially in meetings with Afghans.&nbsp; Besides you have heard of "hat head" right?&nbsp; The constant scarf shuffling, along with the dry air causes static.&nbsp; Nuff said.&nbsp; &nbsp;I felt it more of a pain in the arse than "oppressive", because I am not used to it.&nbsp; It is simply what is culturally acceptable.&nbsp; You wouldn't walk down Oxford Street with your tits out now would you?&nbsp;&nbsp; And before you say that you wouldn't do that anywhere - I have been to places in Africa where tits out is quite the norm...do you think African tribes are lobbying our government to loosen their antiquated covering-of-the-boobs ways?&nbsp; Do we feel oppressed by covering our breasts?&nbsp; No.&nbsp; Of course we don't.&nbsp; We feel comfortable, because it is what we are used to.&nbsp;<i>The last bit of this diary entry was written very illegibly - it says is "Serena Hotel, Nato, Spokesman and the Gandamac, sleepless night - dreams of the Etheringtons escaping a landmine, early start, Wendy (?), dog on a running machine, US Emb, UK Emb, Fort - Turquiose Mountain".&nbsp; I think it was intended that I embellish each thought trail with more information.&nbsp; But fuk it.&nbsp; I don't think I can be bothered.&nbsp; Maybe the reader can make sense of it?&nbsp; Answers on a postcard....the most innovative ideas will be honoured with a million dollar book deal.&nbsp; Yeah right. Of course it may all become clear later as you read on....or it may not.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No, it will.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195569000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195569000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/nomadic/2/1195569000/tpod.html Mon, 24 Mar 2008 15:15:10 -0400 Into Afghanistan - my first official trip not working for the government. Freedom to blog at last. (Transcribed from my notebook, backs of fag packets and chocolate wrappers).

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Dubai, United Arab Emirates

So strangely, I guess this is where my journey begins.&nbsp; Up until now the travelling has been nothing out of the ordinary. A sodden drive to Heathrow in the early hours, a cramped flight to the UAE next to a large man with a laptop who's elbows interrupted my mid-flight entertainment.&nbsp; A room with no personality - shiny floors, pastel walls and lashings of Al Jazeera.&nbsp; But this is where my journey (into the unknown) really starts - at the UN check in counter, along with a group of Caucasian males, in Dubai.&nbsp;I am curious about why they are all going to Kabul.&nbsp; I am branded with a bright yellow UN label and wait in the departure lounge along with the asian migrating population who are headed for home in places like Delhi, Colombo, Kolkotta, I feel different.&nbsp; I've never been on a UN flight and I don't know what it means (if anything).&nbsp; My mum gave me a cake with a UN symbol on for my 21st birthday.&nbsp; Something about the cool blue and white that makes it very good for a cake.&nbsp; Now I am (almost) part of those colours (ok so the label was disappointing in yellow).&nbsp; If the company I work for win this contract in Kabul, I will be a step closer I suppose.&nbsp;* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *&nbsp; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *&nbsp; It's the most amazing privilege being up in an aeroplane.&nbsp; Being able to see that bigger picture.&nbsp; Seeing how places relate to one another from above, where the majority of those on the ground (actually amongst it) are unaware.&nbsp; I've just seen a belt of pink cloud made up from sand particles hanging over the Gulf.&nbsp; In Iraq I often wondered at the pinkish soft light that wrapped around me and calmed me, but seeing it from above I realise it's superficiality.&nbsp;It wasn't long before I was befriended in Dubai airport as I waited to board this humanitarian relief flight.&nbsp; Unlike my fellow passengers who are tardy pudding faced Europeans, "Brad" the American stood out like a sore thumb.&nbsp; Designer sunglasses, Italian suit and shoes, and was that a fake tan to match his too white teeth?&nbsp; Unbelievably he said he lived in Kabul and works in construction.&nbsp; Clearly creaming in the dollars, not wielding pick axes.&nbsp; If this is the US Secret Service keeping tabs on me, then they haven't done their homework - his interest in me was a little over the top and I wasn't impressed with him name dropping Lenny Kravitz and Bill Clinton.&nbsp; I escaped him by getting on the UN flight, but somehow I fear I haven't seen the end of Brad.&nbsp;(I can see years of working in the Foreign Office has left it's scars.&nbsp; Either a) I am genuinely going to be "kept an eye on" or b) will suffer a lifetime of paranoia thinking I am being "kept an eye on")&nbsp;
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