Abu Dhabi Oil and Portuguese Port

Two of the more economically impressive fluids man has managed and shaped to his own ends are the ones which keep Abu Dhabi afloat today and the one that put parts of Portugal on the map centuries ago: oil in the first case and port in the second. Without the first, Rose and I would not have been able to enjoy the second quite so easily nor so much a couple of weeks ago when we visited Owen Sound friends, fresh from 800km of walking the Camino de Santiago, in Porto, Portugal.

We'd only been home from a wonderful two day workshop on middle and high school literacy at the American School in Abu Dhabi for four days when the final Eid holiday came and we were off to Portugal. I was hardly over my exhausting jetlag-all-night flight and drive back to Yanbu-and-work experience when we had to do an all-night drive and fly trip to Portugal. I know I shouldn't complain when this job affords us this kind of travel, but it's still exhausting and keep in mind I'm not 57 anymore and can't do the things I used to do, or at least not do them with such vim as I used to. But I digress. Abu Dhabi is for the most part a city state surrounded by a lot of empty land which covers a rich oil field discovered in the early 70s. Up to that point, all the place had to offer the world was sand and some nice looking waterfront property that could be got for a song, or maybe a couple of goats. Now, though, the city is astoundingly modern with construction going on at a pace that amazes. The buildings that emerge are on a scale and of shapes that seem the stuff of science fiction. 

   The first thought that struck me after seeing all this was not just that oil is an overwhelmingly huge economic driving force--that has been obvious for decades--but that the powers aligned against anything that will stop or even slow down its influence are massive beyond massive and determined beyond any measure of determination man has yet imagined. Here's one set of figures that will make any rational person shake his head (or more likely her head): a native Abu Dhabian (probably male), according to an elderly Irish fellow I spoke to who seemed to know a hawk from a handsaw, inherits from the state when he comes of age 18 million dollars, that being his part of the countries' native wealth. Everyone gets this, as long as he is native blah blah blah. It's unreal. So think of the amount the government keeps and how much of that is going into buildings meant to attract multi-national banks, insurance companies, and the like. It may well be in our children's lifetime that the oil will run out, and when it does, places like Abu Dhabi risk becoming ghost towns. Yanbu, for instance, will become a ghost town, revert to what it was before oil was discovered here, and become little more than a repository for blown sand, empty plastic bags, and camel shit. There's already a deadening of the soul of what it once was. The home Lawrence of Arabia kept here is disintegrating into the sand on which it was built and sooner or later the economy will do the same.

   But you came to read about our travels, so enough of the geo-politics. Here are a couple of the sights from Abu Dhabi.

 A beautifully startling sight and covering an enormous area, this is the Abu Dhabi Grand Mosque and to pass by in a vehicle is jaw-dropping. I'm not sure I've seen a whiter white.
The next two are buildings we passed each day on our way to the conference. They are both very large and architecturally curious, as you can see. I have no idea what they are for except to say the one with the great swoop in it is attached to a massive sports complex which includes three separate soccer stadiums, running tracks, practice fields and so on. The soccer world cup is in Abu Dhabi soon, I think. Coudn't have had anything to do with the money; must be the summer weather.  

The impressive swoop of some sort of
building on the sports complex grounds.

The view from our hotel on Yaz
Island, looking north into the
Persian Gulf.

Faux elephant tusks made with carved
camel bone.

The old souk redone in solid teak
screens. Stunning, but not old.

A little spice shop with bags and bags of the stuff, including three different
varieties of myrrh sap, hardened into beautiful quartz-like shapes.

Portugal, on the other hand, has as many buildings empty, old, and ramshackley interesting as Abu Dhabi has teeming, new, and gleemingly interesting. However, flying via Casablanca can be somewhat depressing on Royal Air Maroc because of the flying habits of the regulars and the ineptitude of the employees at the Jeddah International Airport (not to mention the Casablanca crew not getting our bag onto the flight to Lisbon). Our flight was delayed by two hours with no explanation, announcement, or apology, even though the official screens indicating flight status said we were on time. But it also included a flight from several hours earlier indicated as boarding for seven hours. One official simply laughed when I asked about the screen and told me it is never right. Once on the plane, it takes the attendants about twenty minutes to get people into their correct seats after pointless arguments and discussions trying to explain to people how the boarding pass seat indicators are meant to be taken seriously. Baffling in the extreme why people think they can just sit anywhere. And getting off the plane is equally bothersome. Most of the native passengers throw food scraps, used kleenex, plastic wraps, forks and spoons, peanut shells, pillows, and whatever else they might no longer want to deal with onto the floor. Getting off involves stepping on earphones, soggy tissue, newspapers and the like. It makes you wonder. And there is always a handful of men who think that the stay-in-your-seat-and-don't-open-the-overhead-bins-as-the-plane-is-taxiing instruction actually doesn't apply to them. More than once we've seen a scramble for carry-on bags that a football linebacker might have trouble negotiating. This does not include the fear and trembling brought on by many of the young children who are rarely if ever strapped in and allowed to run about the aisles or stand up on the seats despite pleas from worried attendants. 
   But travel is so much about enjoying cultural differences that I guess I should somehow find the patience within me to see all of this as good old plain fun rather than mind-numbing idiocy. Thank goodness the Lisbon airport, our first port of call, had a spot where a fellow could get a glass of port, quickly. One good thing about flying out of Casablanca on a somewhat clear afternoon is the sight of the north African coast.

The Atlantic north of Africa crashes on the Moroccan coast at Casablanca.

And here, after leaving our villa in Yanbu at 10 p.m. the previous night, is the coast line at Lisbon at 1:30 p.m. the next day. A restorative sight, I must say. After a three hour train north to Porto, we met up with Geoff and Kathy whose month on the Camino made them irritatingly fit and addicted to walking hours at a time, a development that paid off in the end for us as it got us doing an activity virtually foreign in Saudi culture. The walking was fabulous partly because it got us into some of the local cafes and shops, the kind of places missing from the more tourist-focused centre of the town. Porto is a World Historical Site, was established by the Romans well before the AD era, later invaded by the  Moors and then invaded again by Christian armies, raided by Napoleon, and retaken by the native Portuguese. It is a city with a history. And always there has been port, a drink named for the city in a city which gave the country its name. A lovely synchronicity, it seems to me.

      It could just as easily have taken its name from the gorgeous blue tile that is regularly evident when you walk around. Outside walls of churches and other buildings, interior walls of the central train station, and who knows what sort of places are decorated to great effect with blue tiles which more often than not tell a story or emphasize some historical event. But the visual effect one experiences coming upon such a sight unannounced is very very enjoyable, in a "Good Lord!" sort of way.

   The beautiful church with the cross above the door is the Igreja (church) de Santo Ildefonso. It was constructed between 1724 and 1730, and the blue tiles are by Jorge Colaço (1932), depicting scenes from the life of St. Ildefonso, among other things.

A detail of one of the panels on the church below.

This is inside the old train station!

Another one inside the station.

A close-up of one of the panels, including
the face of a local 1960s hair-cut.

One of our turn-a-corner surprises.

So you can see how the walking was rewarding. The waterfront is another part of the old town worth spending time in. We ate very well, drank some beer and some port with a few locals, met street artists with interesting stories, and found some bargains, too. The harbour tour is well worth taking, a 45 minute ride up into the town and then back down again and out toward the Atlantic, all the while passing impressive bridges, steeply sloped housing, and the massive port cellars whose rooms stretch well back into the hills they are built on. Below is a selection of a few of the many photos I took of the Porto leg of our holiday.

This type of cobbling often goes 

on for several blocks or kilometres, in 

some cases.

Another of the many markets 

the city is known for. 

We found a hillside cafe looking out over the town towards
the Atlantic and  managed to enjoy a sunny hour admiring

the view.

Some local life.

One of the more interesting examples of the
graffiti found all over the city.

Another delicious meal along the

harbour, this time at Lapin.

Looking up towards the town centre from the harbour wall

with more of the colourful tile, laundry, and religious 

iconography with which the city abounds.

Looking down at Lapin restaurant 

with the Eiffel designed bridge in the 

background. 

You can see one of the famous port 

cellars just beyond the famous bridge 

as we stand on the famous harbour wall, 

famously.

At the start of our port tasting, the
prelude to many delicious moments.
A not unpleasant way to spend an
hour or two.

The centuries old gothic cathedral
boasts some curious gargoyles.

Life in Yanbu makes a picture of ham worth taking.

We ended our time by driving along the coast to Lisbon, stopping at a seaside boardwalk along the way, and having a stunning Nepalese meal on a winding little street just off the centre square of the capital. It was a glorious holiday. My thanks to Andre Lyder, by the way, for suggesting I find poetry by Fernando Pessoa. Inspiring stuff.

The photo does not do justice to either the power or the size
of the photo. Very little wind was blowing, but these
whiteheadswere smashing their way in. One had to be wary.

The main square, Rossi, in Lisbon from our
rainy window. My, but it was a glorious sight.

I can almost always remember rooms I've stayed in which

have made me both happy and comfortable. This one, 

for one night, four people, was perfect. Right in the heart 

of the city and overlooking the main square was excellent, 

and priced very cheaply. It is in both Rick Steve's and in 

Lisbon Top Ten and well worth it. And, dare I say it, the 

writing was on the wall. Thus the room's name: Escritor

It is deceptive, but this is a very steep cobbled 

street outside our window. Geoff drove the car 

up this thing and it was a bit like driving it up 

and over the Niagara Escarpment . . . really. 

But second nature to the locals.

Rossi Square in the heart of the old part of Lisbon is
a hub,  day or night, of activity. We enjoyed the walk around
and the odd little shop that had chosen not to be a
tourist trap shop. A city I'd go back to in a moment, if for no
other reason than the walking around.

So that is our Portugal trip, and what a restorative it was after two and a half months in the desert. It isn't without irony I make this comment since the time spent teaching in this barren land is what afforded us the trip. On a sadder note, it is places like Portugal and Amsterdam and London which throw into stark relief the vast emptiness of this country, a country in fact rich in history but most of it ignored in terms of selling to tourists or even to the local inhabitants. Geographically fascinating but at the same time forbidding; culturally private yet interestingly mysterious, despite the closed doors and, to a western way of thinking, closed minds. It's a beautiful country in the same way the sea or the Arctic is beautiful, a beautiful sparseness, at least in the northern half where we live. But it seems determined to not allow for the richness that derives from an active commingling of different cultures, and it is a country full of the possibilities of different cultures; one third of its workforce is from somewhere else, a quarter of its population is foreign. Where Portugal and London are in many ways open, it is more natural (and who's to argue, really?) here for walls, gates, and manners to force a distance and a separation.

Back in Old Yanbu

One of the good things about being home sick from work is that I can make the soup I want without any concerns about whether anyone else will like it or not. Unable to sleep, I am now enjoying a soup stuffed full of garlic, ginger, cloves, fennel seeds, chicken, tomato, green and red onion. Delish. And, to add more spice to the sniffly, coughy, headachy day, Canada is about to play France in the Rugby World Cup (having upset Tonga already).

It seems a bit odd to have a full blown headcold in such a hot country, but germs are democratic so moaning about it seems pretty useless. Our return to the land of sand was in many ways much easier than our arrival at this time last year. The weather's better for one thing; still hot, but not as hot, and for obvious reasons not nearly so much of a shock to the system.

Rose is in her new Indian top, a lovely gift from Preetha, an Indian woman who teaches grade two and has a home in the south of India. We often see students in this type of top; in fact, often some Indian or Pakistani students will come to school dressed in the native dress of their homeland.

Speaking of traditional dress, here I am looking like a sharp dressed waiter this past Friday morning, serving tea to Rose and our friends Robert and Marsha on the pool deck about 7:30 in the morning. I'm wearing a traditional men's wrap from what were once the Dutch East Indies. Those are the red socks Rose knitted me for our 33rd anniversary, draped so stylishly over my shoulder. They should serve well on the cold Saudi nights.

We aren't the only ones dressed in seasonal finery. The frangipani trees are in full bloom, as you can see below. These trees abound on our compound but they don't grow anywhere outside of the well-tended gardens of compounds like ours.







Classes are well under way and it has been a real treat to see the students again. Here's a shot of my grade ten class, quite large by international standards: 26.

A few other typical sights include the watermelon seller at the side of the road,








the gorgeous parrots at the local mall,

the unfortunate camel at the local meat counter, and the beautiful bouganvilla outside our back door. And this is our latest acquisition, an unusually dark carpet we found at the local brass shop, hand stitched (as they all are, in fact) and about 40 years old.

Finally, or almost finally, we were out at the local night market where I took this shot of the bounty of produce on hand, all of it shipped into the country, probably from South Africa, the Jordan Valley, or the US. Not all that different, really, from the fruit and vegetable section at Zehrs, except maybe for the cleanliness of the floor.

So we're back and back at it, too. The year will slip along quickly and we'll be home again. I leave you with this photo of the two of us at our anniversary breakfast this past Friday morning. That red rose is from the bouquet Claire and Neil and Scott arranged to have delivered to us the evening before.

Warmest wishes to you all. May the coming snows not be too deep nor the winter winds too cold. xoxox

Istanbul, or Carpets are Us.

I can't tell you how many times Rose and I heard something like "Haghia Sophia? Just this way. Where are you from? Oh, Canada. I have a brother (cousin, uncle, friend) in Toronto (Vancouver, Montreal). I am not official guide but I know a few things. The Haghia Sophia, it is very old, very beautiful. I own a small carpet shop just over here if you are interested." This happened every day, several times a day. The men hired to stand outside the various restaurants were much more imaginative: "Oh, there you are; we were expecting you earlier!" or "Did you want a table outside or inside?" And all of this in a friendly jocular way.

But the carpet guys . . . sheesh. I just started saying, "We live in Saudi Arabia and we've got all the carpets we need, and cheaper too." That generally shut them up or put them off and we could proceed in peace, until the next guy saw us, and he'd say, "Blue Mosque? Just this way. Where are you from? My brother is there." And so on. Just so you know I wasn't misleading them, here are two carpets we bought in Saudi. All hand knotted, gorgeous. The darker red one is half again as big as the blue one which is 5 feet by 3.5. They're a good size.

But so much of Istanbul more than makes up for what minor annoyance all of this turned out to be. In fact, we accepted the carpet men and their approaches as part of the landscape, another part of the cultural difference we had come to find in the first place. (Please, more tea. You are my brother.) Having arrived, the first thing I wanted to do was race up to the rooftop patio and see what Istanbul looked like at 7 in the evening. We'd read about being able to see the Bosphorus on one side and the Haghia Sophia (local signs for which read Aya Sophia) and a more romantic setting, it seemed, would be impossible. Despite the grey clouds, it was breathtaking to see a building as unlike any building I'd seen in person. Bits of it resemble St Paul's in London, but we were never able to see that from our breakfast table in any of the various places we've stayed in London. Sophia's dome has been visible since about 530 AD. The thing astounds in so many ways. Here are a few pics of some of the interior.

Notice the graffiti from1847. Some must be much older.

The balcony railing on the second floor was scratched full of graffiti, most of which I couldn't read. The mosaic you see was covered over by plaster when the place became a mosque  but has been restored to some extent. The place became a museum once modern Turkey was created in 1923. The figure you see in the centre--Virgin and Child--is from the 1100s, the other two added later.

Aya Sophia looking east.

I could go on and on about the history of the city--the ancient Roman remnants, the Byzantine aspects, the Ottoman, the Christian, and so on--but you'll get much better info on-line than you will from me, so I'll just go on with some more pics, and maybe a bit of advice.

For instance, if you go, be sure to visit the Grand Bazaar. The gold and silver is something to behold, not to mention the carpet places, many of which also sell gorgeous table cloths and prayer mats. But there are mountains of seriously overpriced tat. However, it's a carnival of colour, noise, spices, and pitchmen.





This is one "street" of dozens in the world's largest and oldest covered bazaar. If you click on the picture for a closer look, you'll see all sorts of different things for sale: dresses, scarves, more scarves, dishes, chess games, and on and on. There must be close to 50 shops dealing with silver, another 50 for gold, at least 100 that sell carpets, hand stitched tablecloths, and other impressive textiles, but not being a patient shopper, it all became too much.

It looks busy, but it is a beautiful piece. Who could resist?

Here's a pic of the tablecloth we bought, or as Rose likes to point out, I bought. Don't ask me why but we reached a point in our negotiations with the merchant where I simply fell in love with this piece, always a dangerous thing. His schtick was to refer to me as Brad Pitt and Rose as my Angelina Jolie.  I tried very to look  neither amused nor anxious to buy it, and we did manage to get it for less than half at what our man started at. Nonetheless, I expect his family will not go hungry. Here are two pics of the tablecloth. The stitching is all silk and the background is cotton. It was made over several months by a young woman who, in the tradition of her ancestors and like many young women, sewed it as part of the dowry she'd bring to her marriage. Our man, now another brother, told us it was at least 90 years old. Hmmmm . . . and maybe I'm Brad Pitt, too.

This is a bit of the detail work.

Istanbul is a very walkable city, or at least the centre of the European part of it is. There is also an easy-as-pie tram system that you can take advantage of once the hills get to you. And there are many hills to deal with. But you can tell by the number of street merchants desperate to sell you knock-off Hugo Boss socks, 12 pair at a time, or hoping with those slightly panicky eyes that you'll grace their tiny dusty shop and buy some cheap t-shirts or whirling dervish bowls, Istanbul is a city trying to pull up its lower middle class socks on the street while upper-end bars and cafe's hope to lure you in despite the ridiculously high prices. We visited the Pera Hotel, the final destination of all those well-heeled patrons of the Orient Express (Mata Hari, Hemingway--ok, not so well-heeled in some cases: he was a 24 year old reporter for the Toronto Telegram at the time--British novelist Graham Greene, Agatha Christie, Prime Ministers and Presidents, Mark Twain. They showed us the spot where a diplomat had been assassinated in the front lobby.). Our misfortune was to visit just after a 24 million pound makeover. This meant that in the fabled bar it only cost me 55 dollars for a double of Jameson whiskey and a glass of unpleasant red wine. I'd do it again though if I hadn't done it this time. The place was stunning (as were the prices). The wrought iron elevator is hand operated and rarely used, but a woman who maybe thought that at my advanced age the stairs might be too much, offered to give me a lift, so to speak. Creaky, but elegant. The elevator; not the lady. She didn't mention Brad Pitt.

There's a great little bookstore, Robinson Crusoe, which reminds me of our even better bookstore in Owen Sound (The Downtown Bookstore to those of you who are reading this from beyond the city limits). We walked out with three books by Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul's literary son.  Cafes and restaurants abound, and many of them offer excellent food at good prices. One curiosity of Istanbul is that the city is home to hundreds if not thousands of well fed stray cats. We spent a lovely 2 hours in a very old hotel restaurant, all glassed in, old wood, and plants. A large white cat came in with us and rather than shoooing it out, three of the four waiters who had nothing to do, played with the cat for 15 minutes, and then left it to wander about the place. Dogs stroll and nap their way around the city, too. On each of my runs, I came across dogs in small packs, but friendly, dogs asleep in parks, on sidewalks, on benches, on some pretty uncomfortable cobblestones. None were scrawny or scraggly or hungry. Many of them, in fact, resembled slightly overweight hairy-faced middle-aged men, several of whom I saw getting off the ferries that crowd the docks on the waterfront.

Most of the newer cafes, bars, and restaurants, along with the Pera Hotel, are in the northern section of European Istanbul, separated from the southern section where we stayed, by the Golden Horn, a body of water over which but linked by the double-deckered Galata Bridge, upon which you see Rose standing as we prepare to cross on the lower or restaurant level and brave the restaurant solicitors who insist on walking with us and telling us their menu, everyone of which offers better and fresher food than all the others on the bridge, and there are about 60 or so of them. It's a mildly daunting gauntlet.

Rose on Galata Bridge, heading north.

As you can tell, I can go on and on. So I'll try to finish quickly with just a few more pictures. The first one is of a fellow working hard up hill, although you can't tell from the picture that it is a steep climb. He is the third of three men, equally burdened, in quick succession.

The Blue Mosque, across the park from Aya Sophia, looking west.

The Blue Mosque is almost as gorgeous and inspiring as Aya Sophia, but we had been in a few mosques, seen so much beautiful tile, that by the time we visited the Blue Mosque on our last day, we'd almost lost our interest but once in we were again jaw-dropped by the intricate tile work, the enormous arches and domes, and all the beauty. Inspiring (pun ever so slightly intended).


On our last afternoon we visited the old Roman cisterns,underneath the houses across the street from the Aya Sophia. Eerily lit and very cool, the cistern is a wonderully spooky way to spend a half hour or so, strolling the boardwalks that wind in and out between the pillars. No one knows quite when they were built but the safest assumption is around the time of Emperor Justinian, so 500 AD ish. But they were forgotten about for a long time and only discovered again in the 1500s by a Frenchman who noticed people dropping buckets down through holes in their floors and hauling up fresh water. When he investigated, he found the cisterns. It's still a mystery, though, about how the lights survived so long.

Rose has developed the habit of becoming obsessed with the national symbol of whatever country we visit. In Rome it was all things Pinnochio--a marionette, wine stopper, quill and ink, pencil holder, t-shirt, and wrapping paper. In Istanbul it was the whirling dervishes on bowls. Here are the ten little ones she bought, now artfully arranged in our dining room, just so. She can tell when I've moved one, and she gets particularly upset at our cleaning lady on Wednesdays because she moves them all. As I said, it's a bit of an obsession, sort of like the whirling dervishes themselves.
Finally, we got escorted in to an old wooden house beside the cistern to look at some rugs, even after I guaranteed the fellow we had plenty of rugs in Saudi and wouldn't be buying one here. He assured me that he would be happy if we looked and did him the honour of visiting his humble shop. To get to the point, we bought a rug that we really liked; we were worn down by cups of tea, the charm of the salesman and, in my case, an Effes lager, not to mention the beauty of the thing.  So now we have a Turkish carpet, which I guess is not a bad thing. That's it in the picture.

Istanbul is loaded with so  much history, so much colour, and so much to do. If you haven't been, go. But be strong-willed when a pleasant fellow tries to tell you his uncle owns a little shop and he'd be honoured if you would just step inside. You may find out he's your brother.