the journey so far

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Landing in Dubai was nothing short of a surreal experience. I’m really not sure that the whole scope of this journey has really set in, or that it ever will. To me, I’m merely carrying on my life, now immersed and surrounded by a vastly different world and its plentiful and frequent new experiences.
Dubai’s airport is a massive expanse, and though I’d imagine it to be usually bustling with people, Ramadan this month means that it is more than half empty. Less than a quarter full, even. It’s about a 7 minute walk from tarmac to passport control, and the attendants behind the desks have no facial expression and don’t even bother speaking to you, except to ask your country of origin and the reason for you entering their country. It’s a further 5 minute walk (massive massive place) until you’re actually in the “greeting area” which is outside the actual building itself, and I was smothered with the oppressive heat and humidity well before I was smothered by Al, red faced from the beach the day before, tongue leaping in and out of his mouth in excitement. - As he does. The drive from the airport to his was almost startling. The new city sits in the distance, smog, dust and sand hanging in the air making it invisible from more than about 800m away. There are hundreds of construction vehicles lining every horizon - cranes, bobcats, backhoes, drotts as well as containers, and dry docks, towering dirt piles and other mountains of materials and masses of subcontinental workers all dressed in the same blue uniforms (maybe the Arab equivalent of king gees?) everywhere you look. The old city is a careful balance of Islamic architecture in its buildings, monuments and shapes and vast concrete bridges and highways connecting to the new Dubai. Everyone here drives like Al (if you know what that’s like) though without a shred of common sense or courtesy, so each trip out on the road is almost scintillating and never dull. People weave constantly through the speeding traffic, and there are thousands of cars on the extremely well constructed and organised roads.
For the first couple of days, we’re catching up, and enjoy coffees and lunches in some of Dubai’s lavish hotels and cafes. - There is not a single expense spared here: most rooms are heavily decorated in gold and marble, there are thick columns holding every ceiling up and canals with boats to move patrons around within each resort style touristy precinct. All their furniture is from heavy heavy wood, tables and chairs are ornate and the service is only comparable to what you’d receive if you paid top dollar back home - all for normal cafe prices in Aus. Add to this, evergreen grasses and a plethora of palm trees (easily worth in excess of A$10,000 each) lining every road and walkway, matching squeaky clean streets, and it’s clear that Shaik Mohammed (“ruler of Dubai”) has far far too much money to spend. It’s nothing short of a grand city, tributing his billions.
Its day three now, and we’ve travelled the farthest from our base since we got here. Jebel Ali was our destination today, and though unbelievable, the beach - for jet skiing and an indoor shooting range (which we later find just up the road from the beach, back towards home). The jet skis were massive amounts of fun, and quite cheap to hire for our allotted hour. The locals hiring out the gear are super friendly and more than helpful, even advising us to leave our belongings near their van because “the Indians” (98% of today’s beachgoers) might try and take our stuff. They offer us cool drinks even before we decide to hire their equipment.
The water is hot like soup and so salty that after half an hour your face is stinging from the combination of the heat and the salinity - perhaps I was being stewed alive? Much to our entertainment, the retarded looking Russian lads (wearing dt’s and goggles while they rode the skis) ended up having a 3 way crash and an extended argument when they thought it unreasonable that they pay for the extensive damage they did to their watercraft. We had some super fun. Exhilarating. We head home as sunset nears, stopping in at the grandiose IBN Battuta shopping complex. It’s a massive area, each section themed around a few countries (India, China, Egypt amongst others) where you can find decorative halls, walkway and entranceways all fitting in to each relevant country’s cultural pinnings. We spend almost 2 hours walking around - there’s plenty to take photos of (giant chandeliers, elaborately decorated ceilings and floors, massive models of up-and-coming projects being built all over Dubai) as well as spend money on - a lot of the stores common to us back home too (red earth, the body shop and even Novo, to name a few). I doubt we even covered the whole area of the complex. It’s ridiculous how cheap some of the prices are: An all-in-one gym system will cost you a$500. The best and latest mobile phone, half the price of what we pay. Jewellery is insanely cheap too.
As we make our way home, we marvel (I marvel? - yet again) at the monstrous scale of construction happening in this part of the world. Scaffolding, dry docks, containers, Asian workers (today is holy day, so no Muslim is legally allowed to work) as well as concrete blocks and bridges literally line every road that we drive on our way home. There’s a part of some city (there’s areas the size of Brisbane every few minutes of travel) that apparently wasn’t there just 2 years ago when one of our crew (Omar) was here last (apparently it’s empty too, waiting for in excess of 400,000 inhabitants. Not only do these micro cities (micro only in name) pop up at light speed, but each building averages about 60 stories in height and is spectacular in its design. Off the hook really.
Al has a bit of work to do in the last few days, but I still enjoy running around with him in his air-conditioned car (the temperature has rarely been under 35 degrees -even at night- and the humidity is always at least 1,000,000% (or so it seemed!). I see his office, see his method of liaising with his staff and sponsors and see that the people here are very very respectful (and often perplexed and intrigued) by us aliens. We fit small tasks into each day of Al’s schedule: buy new mobile phones, eat at more unbelievable bars (the hotel Meridien at Dubai marina which we stop in for a drink on the way home during the penultimate evening, is perhaps the highlight bar of the week) and restaurants, purchase a beautiful authentic sheesha (hmmm, I think it’s some sort of smoking implement?) check out other insane shopping malls and are sure to end each night with food at home and movies from my loaded external hard drive on Al’s beautiful LCD tv.
On my last night (one week later) we’re ready to let loose. Its Slaven’s (Al’s close friend and business partner) birthday in a couple of days, and we’re celebrating tonight at dinner - and for those not departing on a 0230 flight to Spain via Turkey - out and about afterwards. We arrive at the hotel Renaissance far later than anticipated (Al and Slaven have had to move apartments within their complex today - to house their “workers” in while they work on a contract nearby in the next few weeks - and we’ve spent the whole day transferring our lives into their new home/slowly drinking booze whilst completing the last tasks for the day) and keen as to get involved in the massive food and the unlimited alcohol. Everyone is smoking. The space is very wooden (based around a very tropical island bar feeling). There are big tables of people celebrating lots of things. Many many staff running around with plates and trays full of drinks. Us: Order first rounds of double drinks. Smoke more. Then eat. Then drink. Thirstily. (We’ll only pay 189 dirhams each: about a$60) I take heaps of photos. It’s been good to see Al and his life again. It’s been good to get really drunk with him too (for those of you who know what that’s like).
Goodbye.
I fly comfortably for the 3, almost 4 hours to Turkey, but am agitated by the time I get to the airport, ready to just get to the Spanish end of my journey so far, and not looking forward to the fact that I’ve still gotta catch 2 more planes. It’s not been fun checking all my baggage in (I’ve been hit hard by excess baggage fees already - cameras, computers and guitars not helping in any way) and ... yeah whatever, get over it.
I have 4 hours to kill at the airport. I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about the 5 hours between flights from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca (where Emmanuel is). It’s still humid as hell (an extremely humid place) inside. And I check out some of the duty free stores and sit on the wireless internet in a cafe until it’s time to check in to my next flight. I hardly sleep again. Enjoy reading the book about the entire history of every metal band ever. Ever. Listen to about 7 albums on my mp3 player and am spewing even more about my wait at Barcelona airport.
It’s a trip when I walk through passport control and out into Spain. This country has been my main motivation for leaving home. I’m probably slightly delirious too from sleep deprivation. I feel really really weird: everything is surreal. I can’t wait to see Emmanuel and Tal. I wander around in a daze for a while, and then decide to sit down at an eating area and write for a bit. I get up again and grab something to eat and drink (pulling two san Miguel’s from the cold shelf and smashing 2 beers at once) then sit back down to contemplate the next few hours. Then, lo and behold: just when I’ve exhausted every thought in my unrested, over stimulated, numb brain - lost for what to do, I see Patrick and Laura pottering about looking for something or somewhere just a few metres away from me. I cry out to them. They were looking for me. We laugh and talk and eat and drink and shop and walk and check in, shop, drink and wait together. It’s the perfect way to send me off to see their sons; a massive relief and more than a great help - Laura with her Spanish saving me an excess baggage fee and any possibility of the customs staff (making a fuss about my hand luggage - the sheesa mostly, and eventually trying to rile me, taking my passport away for a while) causing any more obstacles in my journey’s path. I’m very content (and grateful) once I’ve boarded the short flight from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca, Spain.
 
Spain
As I write now, I’m spending my last day in Ibiza deep in recovery. It’s been nothing less than 6 days of solid partying in the biggest and most famous of the world’s nightclubs, at their most popular and attended parties at the end of Ibiza’s closing season (most venues are closed during the winter). On my first (so far, only) night in Mallorca, I was lucky enough to have spent a night staying in a room on the top floor of a hotel overlooking Mallorca bay itself. The view was absolutely unbelievable. And then it also proceeded to absolutely bucket down (heaviest rain I’ve seen in years) from the heavens, welcoming me to Spain. Apparently this never happens. Emmanuel’s place (where I will be living for the next while) is settled in an inspirational part of the city itself. The streets look old, historical, classic, European. The roads are skinny. It’s near to the side of a winding hill, which heads further past his place up towards a castle where some locals reside. As I said, inspiring. I’m looking forward to finding work, and making this my home.
Ibiza is a beautiful place also, but slightly restricted by its isolation and dictated by its tourist trade. The price of everything here is at least twice as much as the same product on the mainland (or Mallorca even). Moreover, the prices in the clubs are nothing less than exorbitant: One bottle of water will cost you 10 Euros (just one bottle, and not more than 250ml) Jack and Cokes, in excess of 17 Euros (each). A round of three drinks, nine times out of ten, costs more than 50 (providing someone hasn’t chosen to abstain from drinking alcohol). The entry fee to each club is in the vicinity of 50 Euros too. We’ve been very fortunate while we’ve stayed here. Grateful. Fortunate. Tal’s close friend Aleix, happens to be the promoter of one of the biggest clubs here. Perhaps the biggest: Space. We are able to utilise their guest list upon each entry, and are privy to the luxuries in the VIP area, that those around us are paying 3000 Euros to enjoy. We get very drunk on our first night there, sleep in the next day and then head to the beach to soak up the sun. I’m not exactly sure of the order in which we attended them (I could try thinking a little harder), but it’s been night (and day) after night (and day) of massive parties in massive clubs. Space, Amnesia, Bora Bora, Pacha, DC-10 (we never got to go to Big Ben’s British fun pub!). Each venue nothing short of a seething, roaring mass of people, all gyrating, convulsing, writhing, roboting, jumping, jiggling, bouncing and shaking to a selection of tunes from a selection of the world’s biggest current names in electronic music. The lighting rigs are second to none; the sound rig in the side room (not the main room) at Amnesia was powered by not less than 12 or fifteen massive amps, lit up in all their glory behind the dj for all to see. It truly is a spectacle. A place where people come to do nothing but fiesta by night and siesta by day. Definitely somewhere to come and party, but perhaps not my ideal home (who was even suggesting that really?): Work isn’t frequent enough, unless the closing season affords you the luxury of not working the rest of the year, like Aleix, who lives here with his beautiful girlfriend Pamela.
The pictures will tell the thousands of words to help complete this story. Emmanuel and I might even be back for next weekend, which is when Space has their official closing party to end all parties. Then the rest of Spain awaits me.

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