January 2010

[Sweder]

I packed the old road runners for my short trip to Dubai more in hope than expectation. Having found out that a very decent running circuit lay just 500 metres from my apartment door I made sure to carve out some run time. Alarmingly the 500 metres included navigation across two frenetic sections of rather busy motorway. The Emirati are working hard to accommodate pedestrians here – an impressive and impossibly opulent elevated train feeds all areas of the city, the frequent stations sitting above the roads like something out of Star Trek or, if you've seen it, Speilberg's dichotomic completion of Stanley Kubricks' AI: Artificial Intelligence – yet footsloggers remain a curious sub-species, left to fend for themselves as thousands of expensive cars compete on the ferocious grand prix circuits that masquerade as public highways.

Having safely hurdled that challenge I sought entry to the park. The first set of gates were locked, the next, another hundred metres on, open. The guard in the entrance kiosk watched me lumber towards him, starting to rise from his seat. I held up a hand, as much to show I didn’t posses the 5 Dirhams required to enter as in greeting. He grinned, returned the universally friendly gesture and sat down. Permission granted.

ZA’Abeel park is a recent addition to the futurescape that is modern Dubai. All around avant-garde visions that might have sprung directly from the imagination of Philip K Dick or Isaac Asimov rise from the desert. The emphasis is on shiny steel and glass but always making room for some superbly displayed, if entirely artificial, flora. Such is the park, a blend of perfectly sculpted hillettes and gently winding trails, a utopian blend of Shangri La and Telly Tubby land. At the entrance I used (it turns out there are many) great globes rose from the ground. The first, painted blue and green to represent the Earth, had two enormous portals through which a contorted rollercoaster track ducked and dove. Adjacent orbs, each around fifteen metres high, buried in the ground at their 'waists', were similarly coloured to represent the planets. It reminded me of another iconic Sci Fi series, the wonderfully under-budgeted yet engaging Blakes’ 7. Viewed on the BBC in the late 1970’s I clearly recall having my first ever celebrity crush on New Romantic diva Servalan, Blakes’ nemesis and leader of the black-hearted Federation. She certainly buttered my beans and no mistake. Had I been forced on pain of death to make a choice between Jacqueline Pearce’s domiatrix or Sigourney Weaver’s heroic Ripley I would surely have taken the only honourable way out.


With these delicious thoughts swimming though my rapidly warming head I soldiered on, past families enjoying the various kiddie rides and play parks to a set of huge inflatable slides clearly stolen from the set of It’s a Knockout. Was this some amazing museum packed with British TV nostalgia I’d stumbled into? It sure felt that way.

Each feature or play station sat amidst manicured perfection. Respectful, immaculate trees stood guard over symmetrical miniature palms and orderly, precise shrubs bordered by what appeared to be dark purple Curly Kale. Minah birds frolicked noisily amongst the foliage, cackling and chirping to one another, no doubt warning of the large, sweaty beast thundering along the running track. Despite the sun slinking off behind Dubai’s celebrated skyline there was still plenty of warmth in the air. I maintained a reasonable cadence, something around 5 minutes 20 kilometer pace, but I had to pick myself up now and then as I flagged in the heat. After a series of gently meandering pathways I came to a junction. The path to my left lead to a pleasant boating lake; the trail ahead continued around the perimeter, and a right turn lead up and across a large expansion bridge to who knew where. I turned right, huffing and puffing up the steadily increasing incline. The bridge lead to another section of park housing an outdoor amphitheatre and what looked like a manicured car park. I chugged around the outer edge, up and across the stage and back across the bridge, much to the obvious amusement of the guards stationed at either end of the crossing.
Back in the park proper I turned right. A group of Arabian ladies strolled towards me, faces hidden by their hijabs as they chatted. I was reminded of a phenomenon I experienced when working in Tehran, where the wearing of traditional, modest attire is a matter of strict law for women. After about a week of seeing nothing but dark eyes beneath dramatically sculpted eyebrows one comes to realise how alluring such limited exposure can be. A glimpse of ankle at such a time could easily send a man into rapture.

Onwards I ran (sorry) towards an enclosed cricket ground. As I watched a stout fellow, immaculate in his whites, played a sublime front foot cover drive for four. The closest fielder did his upmost to intercept the racing white ball but to no avail. A polite smattering of appreciation echoed around the perimeter. I could see the gate through which I’d entered in the near distance and weighed up my options. I’d brought no water with me, having mis-judged the ambient temperature, and could see no obvious, reliable outlet nearby. Another full circuit would take me over ten klicks, probably unwise without refreshment. Besides, I was now liberally doused in sweat and risked being denied access to my security-gated apartment building, so I chose a small deviation around the boating lake before striking out for home.

On that final mini-lap I encountered one of MLCMan’s travelling clan. Standing astride an impressive breaking wave, beautifully balanced on a surfboard, the antipodean smiled a greeting as I dragged myself by. I've attached a shot for posterity in the hope that our friend might know him, alongside a picture of a family having their photo taken nearby. Hmm, I wonder how they can tell who was there and who was not?

Once in the cool embrace of my unfeasibly large rose-headed shower I went through my new stretching drill, imparted by the lovely Bridge (Bridgette) after my sports massage last week. Squats and lunges are what’s required to tackle my feeble quads; a session on the cruel exercise ball to address my embrassingly flabby glutes. Happily there was no such beast in my bathroom. Nevertheless I spent a good 15 minutes stretching my quads, calves and hamstrings and felt decidedly pleased with myself for the effort. My reward for this good behaviour came at supper. I was treated to a most delicious and extensive Thai menu, courtesy of our hosts at CSI and the World Trade Centre. Once again in the shadow of the Burj we sat beside open fire pits as the fountains, performing every 15 minutes, cavorted perfectly to a collection of local and international music broadcast through speakers hidden along the boardwalk.



Here’s a clip of the routine performed to the beautiful Swahilli piece, Baba Yetu.

There’s a bewildering collection of statistics that prove these fountains to be the largest, use the most water, dance the highest, blah blah blah. All that leaves me rather cold as does much of the hubristic bullshit that one trips over here. In many regards Dubai is a soul-less monument to money-lust and greed, bereft of the humanity and joie de vivre that in my view makes cities like Paris, London, New York and Sydney stand head and shoulders above these instant imposters. That said I admit watching the fountains dance as I chomped on the delicious food was no hardship, and such uncharitable thoughts were wafted away on the (artificially) scented breeze.