Getting to know your taxi drivers

Welcome to this magical land known as Abu Dhabi where cars move at a reckless speed, use of a turning blinker has become obsolete and watching the slow development of a neighborhood traffic jam with no relief in sight is just laugh-out-loud funny.

The above picture occurs just about every weekday around 10am right in front of my building. Several things factor into this daily display of hilarity: 1) garbage trucks collecting 2) there is a Starbucks at the ground floor of my building, which attracts plenty of inconsiderate parking and 3) mass confusion.

After living here for six months without a vehicle to call my own, I have became good friends with the speedy taxi drivers who risk their lives everyday with one heavy foot on the gas and another hand on the horn.

But here's a revelation to all my taxi transit operators: just because I'm white and I'm walking on the side of the road doesn't mean I need a cab.

Even though I do appreciate the blatant attempt at customer service, you don't need to pull over and honk at me every time I'm out for a stroll as to say, "What the hell are you doing? It's hot outside. Get in my air-conditioned cab and I will take you anywhere you want for two and half dirhams for every kilometer..."

Don't get me wrong. About 40 percent of the time, I surrender to the urge, hop in the cab, and enjoy the brisk ride to work. Mr. Abu Dhabi Taxi Driver likes those odds so I'm sure the friendly honks will continue.

Sometimes, I like to catch the public bus, which can be a social experiment in its own right. And it costs only two dirhams (that's only 54 cents for you Statesiders). But I'll have to save those sweaty, claustrophobic stories for another blog post.

The men behind the taxi wheel are usually some of the most interesting people I get to meet while living here. Most speak some form of English and they never shy away from conversation, especially since I prefer to hop in the front passenger seat with them.

A quick introduction about where the cabbie is from usually gets the dialogue going. I've come to learn that the taxi drivers that roam the Abu Dhabi streets are typically from Sri Lanka, Bangladesh or India. A natural ice-breaker I use is any mention of cricket, a sport I am slowly coming to grips with. Every cabbie loves cricket, and if you let them, they will talk about it until your final destination.

Have you ever seen people who take a photo of themselves at their computer every single day for like a year and splice them all together in a time-lapse sequence? Well, I took that idea and threw in some of my favorite transit operating friends:

OK, after a while, I started to feel bad that I was snapping these photos off without them knowing. I just figured they had an important job and had to keep their attention on the road (and our cricket conversation).

Eventually, I started to do the polite thing and waited until we were at a red light. While incorporating the polite approach, the pictures came out much more friendly and it usually was followed by a "Am I going to be in the newspaper?" inquiry. I always said no but as you can see, they enjoyed the possibility...

 

Don't we look like we're having a great time together? We are.

For me, it always puts me in a good mood on my way to work. Meeting an interesting person from another side of the planet -- even if it's just for 12 minutes -- and speaking with them about their views, opinions and/or concerns is always an eye-opener.

It's a great reminder. As you float around your lofty little bubble without a worry in the world, there are so many other people on this globe also living their lives. I have spoke with many cabbies since I've lived here and not a single one of them (zero) have ever been to the United States. Their aspirations, ambitions, upbringing, family -- all very different than mine.

I truly enjoy the perspective and celebrate the geographical and cultural insight, if only for 12 minutes each day.

* * *

But eventually, my fiancé and I started to crunch the numbers and we found out with each of us working and the money we spent on cab fare, we could actually rent a car long-term for about the same price.

So unfortunately, my daily escapes to India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh have diminished since we got a car but they have been replaced with a new sense of adventure and of course, the freedom to drive wherever we want at any time we desire.

Plus, now I get chauffeured around with the most amazing person in my tiny world...

Istanbul

It's almost funny how we can start relationships and sometimes put them on the shelf but depending on the type of person you are, they always have the potential to come back around full circle.

One of the many attractive things about my job in the desert is the extensive vacation time allowed each year and the accessibility to interesting places I wouldn't even factor if I still lived in the States.

I predicted that after about five months here, I would need to step out for a week and I was very right in that assumption. The timing also worked out well for Miranda, who, after an exhaustive and arduous employment battle, was scheduled to start work at the Fairmont Hotel two days after we returned. So congrats to that beautiful lady.

Istanbul is where European and Middle Eastern cultures collide head on. Everywhere I looked, it was an interesting blend of compromise, beauty and jaw-dropping history.

A big reason why we picked Istanbul was because we knew a few good people there.

Kim traveled through Asia with Miranda during and after college and Kim has lived in Istanbul for the last three years. Brycen, who has also lived there for the last three years or so, played on my soccer team years before we entered high school and we even graduated from the same college together but at different times.

So Miranda had not seen Kim for nine years while Brycen and I had not hung out for almost a decade. But here we are; parading through this eclectic city. Hiking, drinking, dancing -- just living life. Such good people. It almost makes my heart explode.

Side note: In the days before this trip, I was excited to introduce some cool expats to one another as I thought it was the least I could do before throwing my innocent tourist appetite into their clutches. But, of course, in a city of 20 million, I found out on the first night that they already knew each other. Go figure.

Just about every person I met in Istanbul was genuine. The lovely nature people exuded could be felt in all directions. That's why it really struck a chord in me when I saw the first reports of the police clearing out Taksim Square.

On Friday, we were supposed to leave for the airport from Taksim Square -- the apartment we stayed at was a few blocks from there -- but since we were running a little late, we scooped up a taxi. Little did we know, it was the exact time the Turkish police brought the hammer down on a peaceful protest over the preservation of a nearby park.



Because of the severe overreaction from police with tear gas, water hoses and rubber bullets, the wonderful people that we were surrounded by in the days before have naturally started to fight back. It appears several questionable decisions by the Turkish government have fueled this fight and it doesn't look it's going to go away anytime soon.

The police brutality I saw on TV reports right after we landed at the Abu Dhabi airport compared to the serenity I experienced while walking around that fair city are on extreme opposite sides of the spectrum.

Of course, this has pinched a personal nerve for me with consideration I was just there. Our Istanbul friends, Kim and Brycen, are both OK and have not taken part in the protests. But I do believe in the cause.

Keep up the good fight, Istanbul.

Change is on the horizon. Keep on rocking in the free world.

A day at the camel race track

For a few years, while I lived outside of Baltimore, I took part in the annual shenanigans that surround the Preakness at Pimlico Racetrack. The second jewel of the country's Triple Crown was usually a drinking all-star game for the misfits who pillage in that fair city.

The horse races were held last weekend -- anyone drinking at the infield party probably didn't see any of the action -- but it got me thinking about the racing action back here in the UAE. This country's biggest horse racing event is the Dubai World Cup and is actually the highest paid race in the world as the winner walks away with a check for $10 million.

There are other kinds of racing the region has also been known for. When I first moved here, I learned quickly of the competitive camel races held in the outskirts of Abu Dhabi simply by turning on the TV.

It wasn't long before I joined up with some other thrill-seekers and journeyed out in the middle of desert to see ridiculous camel racing in person. Our debut was ill timed...

It was 7.15 in the morning and after several hard stares by some of the finest camel racing juggernauts in the business, we decided to drive around the infield looking for a good party. You know, just like Pimlico. I figured it would be no time at all before we ran into a gaggle of drunks tailgating for the main race. 

Unfortunately, we did not find that. We actually found nothing at all. In fact, we were lost. At a camel race. In the middle of the freaking desert.

So like the good people we are, we tried to make friends...

This camel jockey gentleman gave Kristen directions that seemed very clear at the time. We got more than five hand movements or gestures, so it was a clear indication that we were very close.

Almost a half-hour later, we found the spectator venue for the races and looked around for a scalper so we could buy tickets. It was Thursday but I still expected a sell-out crowd for such a riveting display of sport...

I did not place any bets for the same reason I didn't crack open a beer. The fine people who run this country feel it is not proper and therefore, it's illegal. 

But recklessly driving your SUV alongside a race track and pushing the button on a remote control so a mechanism slaps the back of your racing camel is common practice.

Before they had the little slapping machines atop the camels, they used little children as jockeys so don't get me started about the inhuman things they did to those kids. That's a story for another day. Until then, cheers to all the horses in America and abroad but I think it's obvious that camel racing is the world's premier racing sport.

Metallica in the desert

When I was mapping out my social agenda last weekend, I was pulled in opposite directions.

On one hand, my office was throwing a grand soiree to celebrate the 5th birthday of The National and on the other hand, Metallica.

It pained me to see both scheduled the same night but a ray of sunshine broke through the confusion clouds when I found out the events would coincidentally be held very close to one another on Yas Island, which is a few miles outside of Abu Dhabi, hosts a Formula One race track and is home to Ferrari World.

The office party started at 8pm and Metallica was to take the stage around 9.30pm. Of course, I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too, but this was going to take some careful planning. 

I told Miranda to dress for the concert, not the party. But for those who know Miranda, she loves a great party and can rock out to just about anything, which why she is my lovely partner in crime on these festive evenings.

We showed up a little early for the office party and the set-up was classy. Real classy. Big round tables with white clothes, a dance floor and a copious amount of kind Filipino servers ready to assist us with any need.

Meanwhile, just down the street, thousands of Arab rockers were loading up on beer courage and sweating in the desert humidity. 

While we sipped drinks with esteemed colleagues, we could hear the concert sound checks from the balcony of the reception hall. I tried to load up on a little beer courage of my own before fellow sports guy Stevie Sanchez told me they did, in fact, serve beer at the concert.

I almost fainted.

This is a Muslim country so outside of a hotel or an elusive liquor store, beer is not sold anywhere. 

I thought I was going to hit the Metallica mosh pit with a frosty Fanta in my hand. But BEER? BEER!! I was just elated that someone at the du Arena actually used their head when they designed the place and had a financial profit in mind. 

After politely excusing ourselves from the party, Mr. Sanchez, Fergie, Dubai Sarah, Miranda and I rolled into the show and made a beeline for the beer tent. Four tall 20 oz Heinekens cost 150 dirhams (which is like 40 bucks), which sounded good to me. Sanchez and I grabbed a four-pack each and then we made our way to the lawn.

See, the du Arena (du is a local cell phone service provider) is basically just an open-air general admission venue. There's a huge stage, a huge lawn in front of it and it's every man for himself.

Guns N' Roses killed it there last month, Andrea Bocelli and his 70-piece orchestra made an appearance earlier this year and I heard the Bieber is playing there in the next few weeks. It's a great venue and can hold up to 50,000 people.

When Metallica visited two years ago, the place sold out. Those guys are getting on their years but they still put on a freaking awesome show. Abu Dhabi loves them...

Yes, we crushed beers and rocked out to songs I have not heard since high school. For the first time in a few years, I was reminded how great it was to see live music at a big-time venue and go crazy at an outdoor concert. 

It felt good. It felt like home. 

Celebration champagne, anyone?

I was consumed with sports page layouts this week when a fellow Yank from the newsroom, Steve, approached me with a trivia question.

"You know what today is?" he asked.

"Tax day, yeah, haven't tackled that pickle just quite yet," I barked back without taking my eyes off the computer monitor. I've tapped my father, a former CPA in a past life, for US tax help but the U.S. Virgin Islands play by their own rules. We'll see what happens.

"No, man. Today marks four months for us," said Steve, who sat next to me during our 13-hour flight to Abu Dhabi.

Right away, I looked to him like he was going to hand me a glass of champagne. He did not. But it forced me to briefly reflect on the past 1/3 of a year in my life.

How could I have lapsed on such a monumental landmark? You know why? Because it's really not a big deal.

Don't get me wrong: I love people but why do so many of us put so much stock into meaningless anniversaries based around how long they have lived in a certain place? In the islands, you see and hear about it constantly. I'm sure it's no different in the sand box. Like when people mention how long they have lived here or there, it's as if they now deserve a cookie for the accomplishment.

"Today marks 8 months, three weeks and two days since I moved to (blah, blah, blah)..."

I can't remember my own phone number much less the mundane dates that are littered throughout my scattered past. I guess my thoughts are elsewhere these days...

Like what it felt like when I left my office in the Middle East late at night this week just before wire reports came in about a terrorism bomb attack at the Boston Marathon.

Or what was going on in my head when the plants in our apartment started to violently shake yesterday while my fiance and I prepared a late lunch. The biggest earth quake to hit these parts in over 50 years dominated my thoughts and left me with one conclusion: these are strange times, indeed. What's next?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am much more concerned with the present and the future compared to the past. If I'm hiking a mountain, give me a set of binoculars so I can scout the peak. If I look back down to see how far I've already walked, it will just make me nauseous.

But if you hand me a glass of champagne, I will never decline. That's a promise.

Yank missing the Yankees

For as long as I can remember, I have always associated the month of March with the college basketball Madness that ensues.

Right before this year's tournament, my editor, one the few Americans in the office, told me that watching and obsessing about the NCAA Tournament is one of the first things to fall by the wayside when living in the desert.

The games are on TV in the middle of the night so viewership is way down. Actually picking the brackets is like shaving in the dark. I did not watch a single game this season. Pathetic.

Regardless, I am still within the Top 3 in our 20-person office pool. A few weeks ago when the brackets came out, I had to explain to several people the whole concept behind the tournament seeds and how Florida Gulf Coast won't win a single game.

"Which team does Michael Jordan play for?"

"Gonzaga? Is that the school's real name?"

"Aaron, you said you went to James Madison, does that mean you picked them to win the whole thing?"

See, the Brits I work with put all their allegiance toward the team that is closest to the town they grew up in. So naturally, they thought the JMU Dukes were my team and that I bleed Purple and Gold (Is that our school colors, I can't remember?)

Just the other day, I was tracking MLB Opening Day online and reading about Bryce Harper going yard twice in the Nationals home opener. When I looked up from my computer, I watched as a fellow Yank sports hack, Steve, was explaining in detail to some Brits in our office what a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar hook shot looked like.

Ugh. I miss America sports.

Don't get me wrong, I now know a lot about the professional football leagues all across Europe and am just scratching the surface of what cricket is. I have this amazing experience to thank for that.

But I do miss the feeling of drinking a tall beer, sitting in the outfield stands under the sunshine and watching CC Sabathia throw some high heat.

For the record, I picked Louisville to win it all. If they do so, then I will scoop up a cool Dh1,400 off my basketball-savvy international colleagues. So at least I got that going for me. That, and the upcoming fantasy football office league. No, Manchester United will not be involved in that one.

Cost of living

For a country that will put you behind bars for bouncing a check, the collectors in the UAE sure do have a lax approach when you're ready to sign on the dotted line.

I have lived in my one-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of a 17-story tower since January 15. The first utility bill (electricity and water) came last week and it was super cheap. Almost too cheap.

The first wireless internet and home phone bill also surfaced and just like the utility bill, it was low. I have splurged on a pair of chicken shawarmas for dinner that cost more.

Only problem: I couldn't pay my Abu Dhabi Distribution Company bill using the Internet. What a world?

So when I walked into their office, which was located in the basement parking area of a nearby mall, I took my DMV-style printed ticket and waited in an empty reception room until my number lit up on a digital display that hung above five desks occupied by bored Emirati men.

When I sat down with one of them -- only after my number flashed above his desk -- he was surprised that I had come in to pay such a low bill. I really wanted to set up an auto-pay system so I wouldn't have to spend any more my free time inside a parking lot basement office.

Confused Emirati employee: Why, you have three months to pay this. Why you come today?

Responsible consumer: No, it says right there on the ticket that it's due today. And why couldn't I pay online?

CEE: Oh, the system has been down.

RC: OK, whatever. Can I set up an auto-pay system with you guys?

CEE: No.

RC: Just no? That's it. Wow.

He sort of wiggled his nostrils, scratched his nose and then looked at his compute screen, which was full of Arabic words and esoteric symbols that I would never understand.

He wrote down a phone number on the back of his lunch receipt and pushed it across the table toward me. He then told me to call that number and I can pay over the phone. I turned it over and discovered he liked chicken shawarmas, too.

So to pay a utility bill, you can't do it online. If it's not a massive bill, then a personal exchange won't work either. Instead, this guy wanted me to call it in. Maybe I should lick a stamp and do it the old-fashion way? Or send a smoke signal??

*   *   *

Two days later, I realized I was running very low on my meds. Really low, like I had one day's worth (Sorry, mom). So I pulled out my brand-new insurance card and hit the phones. After a few attempts, I was told I could just walk-in from 8am until noon the next day and a doctor would eventually see me.

When I got to the receptionist -- the only man in a very busy room -- he asked if I wanted to make an appointment. I said I didn't need an appointment and just needed a refill. I reluctantly pulled out my old medicine container, which was last filled at a neighborhood grocery store in Sterling, Virginia.

I figured it was a shot in the dark. A medicine container from another continent? He gave me a quick look and then politely asked me to sit down.

The place was full of busy Filipino nurses running around. They were the ones doing all the work. Within five minutes, even before I gave them my DOB, one of them grabbed me and escorted me to a doctor's office.

I was in and out of this place with my prescription filled in 30 minutes. It may have been a new record. Definitely faster than any time I've spent in a U.S. doctor's office. I didn't even have time to read the book I brought for the expected boredom.

And the final bill was less than the round-trip taxi fare from my apartment. I'm not sure if it's because the medical help here is that awesome or if I just have celebrity insurance. But it was pretty sweet.

See kids, it pays to live outside the United States. Now who wants a chicken shawarma?