Crazy driver, loony dunes

What I know about 4X4 vehicles, beyond that certain people find it impossible to negotiate the rough terrain of South Kensington or the 16th arrondissement in anything else, is a little less than would be required to make them a specialist subject on Mastermind.

But I haven't the slightest doubt that there is only so far you can make a Land Cruiser tilt.


Tossing us about in the dunes of the desert outside Abu Dhabi city, Hilal - or Crazy Driver, to use the name with which he introduced himself - somehow managed to remain short of that point.
There were times we seemed to have veered so far sideways that the only issue left was how hard it would feel when the capsize was complete.

But Hilal's version of CD plates - as in competence and dependability rather than crazed driving - kept us more or less upright. "Don't close your eyes - it would make you sick," he said early on, perhaps more concerned about the state of his upholstery than the constitutions of his passengers.

It was an obligatory introduction to the desert. The Land Cruisers rode the dunes in convoy, giving the holidaying or expat Westerners on board a taste of white knuckle excitement. We paused at a camel farm, devoured a delicious barbecue (taking care to decline the vile, cold chips) and watched a belly dancer's gyrations.

It was the roller coaster in the sands that most will remember, however. The friendly German lady in the front of our vehicle took it all with commendable stoicism, while her even friendlier husband was composed enough to pepper us with questions about French roundabouts and sleeping policemen (neither in much evidence in the desert).

For me, it was like one of those mad fairground rides we used to watch from our apartment window across the rue de Rivoli from the Tuileries, except that this time I was taking part instead of looking on in wonder at the masochism of the human race.

All of which made me very grateful that drinks - proper drinks - were served at the barbecue. The desert, or this desert, is no more dry than my hotel. But when it comes to alcohol and the Emirates, I have ceased to be amazed at the inconsistencies and anomalies.

At the hotel yesterday, I ordered two fruit cocktails, mentally calculating the 50 per cent '"happy hour" reduction.

"Sorry, sir," the barmaid said. "It only applies to cocktails with alcohol."

* Coming next: M et Mme Salut go native