Written: [Courtyard of Al-Rabie Hotel, Damascus] 7.45pm 17th May

The courtyard is truly a blessing as it gives character to a hotel that would otherwise be fairly unremarkable. The marble tiles, fountain, chirping birds, old furniture and hanging vines all contribute to the generally relaxed, old and musty atmosphere of the hotel. The young guys that run it haev evidently run out of people to be interested in or foreigners to be surprised by as they approach their work in a relaxed but business-like manner. Although, maybe it's just me that they don't like given their general bruskness and constant rebuffs of my attempts to communicate in Arabic with their more than adequate English.

This place must certainly be over 100 years old yet everything in it seems normal, utilitarian and serves a purpose. The tourists recline on the more comfortable of the older chairs as if they were musty old armchairs in their livingrooms, as they read books. The older tourists huddle around small tables reading guidebooks, talking in hushed tones and reacting with muted wonder at the loud call to prayer that emanates from the large mosque.

The Chinese girl wearing a beautiful silk robe (knee-length, black) that contrasts perfectly with her alabaster skin thinks nothing of traipsing along the marble tiles, probably laid over 100 years ago, on her way to the ancient stairwell leading to the room in which she sleeps, that has probably never seen the modern wonders of TV and Air Conditioning, born of an older, more practical form of climate control and entertainment, before the advent of such luxuries. As she trails the sickly synthetic yet strangely emasculating (for me, not for her) scent of designer skincare product, it seems to stand at odds with the shisha pipes and decaying wooden furniture around it.
































This is the beauty of Damascus, as LP says, the locals shop in the ancient souqs, live in the Old City, pray in the Ummayad Mosque, bathe in the Ottoman-ear hammmams and fill the streets with a lifestyle that has changed so much yet so litle in Syria's long and turbulent history. The two old men playing backgammon outside a butcher's shop in the shade of the stone buildings of the old city. The men sharing a shisha and a conversation in the qahwa opposite the Ummayad Mosque. The women bargaining for spices and textiles in Hammidya Souq, 100+ years old. The kids bouncing a football against the eroding stone walls, a grey that is not so much unforgiving as seemingly eternal.

How many empires have these people seen come and go? Romans, Persians, Abbasids, Ummayads, Greeks, Ottomans, French, Ba'athists, and now, slowly encroaching, the empire of the tourist. The clothes may now be made of cheap manufactured Chinese textile and there may be satellite dishes above the slums, but some things in Damashq, as-Sham, will never change. And all those things can be found in the smile of the tea-maker as he serves the young German girl tea, directs his older son on where to place more stools, grips the shoulder, reassuringly, of his younger son who's playing on his electronic keyboard, and takes a relaxed, pensive drag on his cigarette as Damashq moves before his eyes.

Dubai Sleaze or Dubai Dream?

There's something about sleazy hotel bars that fascinates me. I always think of Bill Murray hunched over his whiskey in Tokyo, lost in traslation. The bar in this particular hotel that I am staying in is, for me, a perfect representation of Dubai in all its glory.

Let's recount, the bar is called "Rendezvous", a sleazy enough name in itself. The night's entertainment consisted of three Russian women in their early 30s wearing slinky, tight, short bright sparkly gold dresses shimmying around on stage to Arabic songs played by their probably Egyptian keyboardist. They were also singing Arabic songs (impressive), along with Russian and English songs, much to the delight of the crowd. These girls were followed by a Russian belly-dancer with amazing cleavage, much to the delight of said crowd.

And the crowd, what a mix. Khaleeji men in thobes (something tells me mostly Saudi with a few Qataris mixed in), clapping and cheering on these girls like there's no tomorrow. Middle-Aged Russian girls standing around the bar smoking slims furiously, dressed in all sorts of gaudy attire, one enormously fat one yelling "Masha!" at her friend constantly, flirting outrageoulsy with thobed men. Are they prostitutes? Possibly, maybe not though, that's the sad thing.

Another group of thobed men stands at the back of the bar, clapping and laughin racuously, flirting with their Russian whores, saying "ya tebya lyublyu... ya TEBYA lyublyu..." as the very same lyrics of the song are belted form the stage. It's always easier to say "I love you" in another language, just like swearing, you never really feel the impact of your words.

And what about that lone thobed man sitting hunched Bill Murray style over his beer? Looking at everything with a slight bemusement, or is that disdain? Why is he not like his more loose thobed counterparts? What about the group of Indian businessmen, pointing and conversing? What about their African counterparts on the other table? What about the conspicuously American man, sticking out like a sore thumb, with his short-sleeved blue shirt tucked into his light blue jeans and runners on his feet? "Budweiser, thanks", seemingly oblivious to the relatively poor quality of his chosen beer, caught in a subtle patriotic fervour.

What about the serving staff? Filipina barmaids in tiny skirts run around asking if I want another beer and putting nuts in front of me. South Indians behind the bar quite clearly incapable of pouring the beer properly (too much head is bad), let alone knowing the difference in taste between the Danish, Australian, Dutch, Belgian and American offerings on tap.

In fact the only nationalities seemingly conspicuously absent from this bar are Western Europeans. Perhaps they prefer sleaze in Spain, Italy or Eastern Europe, something a little closer to home?

What is it about this place? Is it the sleazy dim lighting? The ridiculously loud music? The wood-grain as far as the eye can see? Is it my table? With its Aussie beer branded coasters, American beer branded advertising, Indian beer branded ashtray, Danish beer branded receptacle holding my Belgian beer which is slowly emptying?

Those who think these bars are confined to the sorts of hooker pickup hotels you find on the appropriately titled Exhibition Avenue in Bahrain, dont fool yourself, this is a four star hotel.

What are these people doing here anyway? It's a freakin' Tuesday night. Are they looking for some entertainment on a business trip? Looking to escape their family back in Saudi, buyoed by the relative freedom and control their society bestows upon them? Are they looking for action? Money? Are they lonely?

As I sit on my balcony looking out over the street below, typing this, trying to picture in my mind's eye the goings on of "Rendezvous", I hear a distinctly female Russian voice calling, almost pleading, from below... "Masha... Masha... Slushai menya (listen to me)" Lonely indeed.

For those people that said Dubai is a city with no soul, maybe it doesn't have one heartbeat, but it has many, all so segregated yet thrown together, chasing something but no one really knows what. The reclusively wealthy, above-it-all Emiratis? The fornicating Saudis? The sore-thumb Americans? The desperate, tactless but endearingly confident Russian girls? The curious but aloof Indian businessmen? The poor labourers eking out a meaghre living? The Egyptian concierges and hotel staff, smiling and smarming their way through the day? And many, many more... All chasing something. Dubai is the land of opportunity of the East.This is the Dubai dream.

Muharraq

Sitting in my car waiting for shawarma and labneh. Muharraq, another bastion of conseratism in 'liberal' Bahrain. See the cars go past. How many men driving with naqabi (totally covered except for the eyes) wives in the back? Their oblivion to everything but their family, their household. An upright Arab in a suit and a droptop BMW roadster. Indians in old cars. Uniformed expatriates, police? Protecting what? Car horns go off. A dumpster with arabic graffiti, and a love heart.

Yes, there is love here, somewhere. A kid in an AC Milan soccer jersey, Kaka's name emblazoned on the back, coke bottle glasses, ferries garbage to the dumpster. Oasis sings "Dont look back in anger, I heard you say". Veiled women in expensive cars, traffic does a carefully choreographed dance through the narrow street. An Indian man rides past on his bike, balancing juice cups on his handle bars. I wonder how many hours he works a day to support his family that is so far away? I wonder when is the last time he saw them?

Too late for wondering. The food is here.