As my former boss Conrad Black sits on his Palm Beach terrace taking his daily tipple of "good French white wine", he is unlikely to cast his thoughts in the direction of Teheran and Delaram Ali.
Why should he? Lord Black of Crossharbour, as he styles himself in memory of the Isle of Dogs, to which he moved the Daily Telegraph 20 years ago, is more preoccupied by what he regards as one monstrous injustice - his own - to worry about another faced by a young woman in a far off land.
On Nov 30, he will be sentenced for fraud and obstruction of justice, recognisable crimes in any sane jurisdiction. Ali (pictured below) has already been condemned and faces 10 lashes and 30 months in jail for the non-crime of protesting peacefully - check that last link; it takes you to a remarkable photo essay - in favour of women's equality.
There is no true link, of course. But I have followed the Ali case because I now live in the Gulf, a whole lot nearer Iran than Florida, while my natural fascination with the Black trial has been deepened by conversations with new Canadian colleagues who also once worked for him.
And I find myself feeling sympathy for them both.
I have no real interest to declare. When Black owned the Telegraph, I was a mere reporter. He seemed a decent and successful proprietor and it is beyond reasonable doubt that the newspaper his regime produced was vastly superior to that of today. But we met only once, and I have only a couple of anecdotes worth passing on.
Unlikely scenario
Picture:HawleyB For some reason, I was among lowly hacks invited to join Black in the executive dining suite for lunch. Discussion turned to the woeful lack of facilities to eat, drink or shop on the Isle of Dogs.
"But we are pioneers," our leader roared. "Before you know it, you'll have everything here that you had in Fleet Street."
Rashly, I failed to stop myself exclaiming: "And it'll still be a lousy place to run a national newspaper."
"My, you're a defeatist," came the reply. A little later, he asked about the jolly libel trial involving two editors, Andrew Neil and Peregrine Worsthorne, the first allegedly representing Vulgar New England and the second Stuffy Old England. I had been covering the case and since Worsthorne edited the Sunday Telegraph, Black wanted to know the likely outcome.
"We'll lose," I said in my second career-threatening contribution to the luncheon conversation. "But if it's any consolation, the damages will be nominal." I was proved right - Neil collecting all of £1,000, a pathetic sum by the obscene standards of English libel awards - but it was hardly the answer the owner had wanted to hear. "You know, you really are doubly defeatist," was all he could think to say.
Afterwards, our scholarly deputy editor, Andrew Hutchinson, who also attended the lunch, told us Black had remarked on the staggering ingratitude of occupants of the editorial floor. As he strode through the office, no one had approached to thank him for a recent handout of share options.
"Please do not worry," Andrew had assured him. "All are indeed most grateful. However, it simply is not the done thing for a reporter or sub-editor to be seen ingratiating himself with the proprietor."
The lunch produced no known casualties. Black continued to preside over a profitable newspaper; journalism there continued to flourish. This does not excuse subsequent financial irregularities. If he went on to defraud his companies of millions, he deserves to be punished.
But he no more deserves to be treated as a car bomber than poor Ali deserves to be flogged. I have no wish to go behind the verdict of the jury and if he is guilty, he probably couldn't complain if he received the other part of her sentence: 30 months in the slammer. American justice has its own vicious streak, however, and prosecutors are demanding 19-24 years' imprisonment.
At least there is hope for the brave and smart Miss Ali. The Iranian courts are reviewing her case for the third time and we must hope that they will belatedly gain a sense of proportion and spare her both components of a savage judgment.
In the country that added the dreadful Genarlow Wilson affair to the history of miscarriages of justice, Conrad Black would be unwise as a convicted fraudster to count on receiving much clemency from Judge Amy St Eve.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Popcorns, tapas and a night at the opera
Amateur operatic and dramatic societies had a common complaint when I worked on my first local paper.
After all the time and effort devoted by volunteers to each show, coverage of the first night would be entrusted to some bored junior reporter with little or no appreciation of culture, a pressing desire to be somewhere else and a consequent temptation to rattle off a stinker of a review.
They had a point. So when I became chief reporter of the paper's district office, I took care to send a colleague who, as an active and gifted member of such a society herself, would be writing from a position of authority.
When she too delivered an unenthusiastic write-up, the society cried foul still louder. "It was obvious she'd have a go at us," they said, "what with her belonging to a rival society."
For the opening night of a short run for Carmen at the 1,200-seater theatre in Abu Dhabi's glittering Emirates Palace hotel, Salut! Salam reverted to route one. Cub reporter days are long gone, but my reflections are still those of a know-nothing dilettante.
All week, I had been warned that tickets were scarce. Mine cost about £50, for which I got a large, comfortable seat with plenty of legroom. It was also surrounded by a lot of empty seats; someone mentioned a local custom of well-to-do and well-meaning people buying tickets to support the principle of live arts, but not bothering to turn up.
What did they miss?
Well, popcorn for a start. I do not go to opera enough to know whether this is now normal practice, but it did surprise me (and apologies for the poor quality of the photo).
Opera, light or otherwise, may not be my strongest point, but Carmen I like. This interpretation, billed as the work of an "International European Touring Cast", was something of a curate's egg.
Act one seemed a little flat, but it all became much more compelling in acts two and three. The sets were magnificent, the English subtitles for Bizet's French impenetrable (as was some of the delivered French; I heard someone say afterwards that she thought at first they must be singing in Bulgarian).
While the finale was also something of a letdown, my impression - and that of my two companions - was that the cast would probably improve steadily as the run progressed, so that the the third or fourth night could be a better time to attend. I did not see the slips of paper bearing news that an understudy had taken Carmen's role in place of the Russian mezzo soprano Galia Ibragimova.
But my view is no more than that: one man's view, although paying all that money to attend enables me to offer a verdict - "passable performance, could do better" - from high moral ground. I do not suppose that anyone reading this was also present, but if that thought betrays undue pessimism about the size of my Abu Dhabi readership, alternative views would be welcome.
Where I will offer unqualified praise is in the matter of post-concert refreshment. It was past midnight, but one of the bars in this seven-star hotel was able to rustle up a grand selection of tapas - assorted olives, dips, grilled prawns and red peppers stuffed with cheese - for about £12 a head, drinks included.
That experience of stunning value for money, in the sort of location where you might expect to be fleeced, was not my first. In the Fish Market, a superb restaurant in my own temporary home (the Intercontinental hotel) the other evening, I had been preparing myself mentally for a true douloureuse of a bill, one to drive you into the arms of a re-mortgaging broker.
Each dish is chosen from an array of fresh seafood in which prices are given by weight, so that you have little idea until the end of the meal what you have spent.
We had generous appetisers (a succulent local fish, hammour, fried in breadcrumbs), delicious starters of tiger prawns and a small Omani lobster known as cigali, followed by sea bream and more lobster as main courses.
In London, that would have set us back well over £100 for two even without recourse to a wine list guaranteed to be bursting with pretension and ferocious mark ups. Braced for the worst, I asked to sign; £70 for everything. What would you get for that in the West End?
After all the time and effort devoted by volunteers to each show, coverage of the first night would be entrusted to some bored junior reporter with little or no appreciation of culture, a pressing desire to be somewhere else and a consequent temptation to rattle off a stinker of a review.
They had a point. So when I became chief reporter of the paper's district office, I took care to send a colleague who, as an active and gifted member of such a society herself, would be writing from a position of authority.
When she too delivered an unenthusiastic write-up, the society cried foul still louder. "It was obvious she'd have a go at us," they said, "what with her belonging to a rival society."
For the opening night of a short run for Carmen at the 1,200-seater theatre in Abu Dhabi's glittering Emirates Palace hotel, Salut! Salam reverted to route one. Cub reporter days are long gone, but my reflections are still those of a know-nothing dilettante.
All week, I had been warned that tickets were scarce. Mine cost about £50, for which I got a large, comfortable seat with plenty of legroom. It was also surrounded by a lot of empty seats; someone mentioned a local custom of well-to-do and well-meaning people buying tickets to support the principle of live arts, but not bothering to turn up.
What did they miss?
Well, popcorn for a start. I do not go to opera enough to know whether this is now normal practice, but it did surprise me (and apologies for the poor quality of the photo).
Opera, light or otherwise, may not be my strongest point, but Carmen I like. This interpretation, billed as the work of an "International European Touring Cast", was something of a curate's egg.
Act one seemed a little flat, but it all became much more compelling in acts two and three. The sets were magnificent, the English subtitles for Bizet's French impenetrable (as was some of the delivered French; I heard someone say afterwards that she thought at first they must be singing in Bulgarian).
While the finale was also something of a letdown, my impression - and that of my two companions - was that the cast would probably improve steadily as the run progressed, so that the the third or fourth night could be a better time to attend. I did not see the slips of paper bearing news that an understudy had taken Carmen's role in place of the Russian mezzo soprano Galia Ibragimova.
But my view is no more than that: one man's view, although paying all that money to attend enables me to offer a verdict - "passable performance, could do better" - from high moral ground. I do not suppose that anyone reading this was also present, but if that thought betrays undue pessimism about the size of my Abu Dhabi readership, alternative views would be welcome.
Where I will offer unqualified praise is in the matter of post-concert refreshment. It was past midnight, but one of the bars in this seven-star hotel was able to rustle up a grand selection of tapas - assorted olives, dips, grilled prawns and red peppers stuffed with cheese - for about £12 a head, drinks included.
That experience of stunning value for money, in the sort of location where you might expect to be fleeced, was not my first. In the Fish Market, a superb restaurant in my own temporary home (the Intercontinental hotel) the other evening, I had been preparing myself mentally for a true douloureuse of a bill, one to drive you into the arms of a re-mortgaging broker.
Each dish is chosen from an array of fresh seafood in which prices are given by weight, so that you have little idea until the end of the meal what you have spent.
We had generous appetisers (a succulent local fish, hammour, fried in breadcrumbs), delicious starters of tiger prawns and a small Omani lobster known as cigali, followed by sea bream and more lobster as main courses.
In London, that would have set us back well over £100 for two even without recourse to a wine list guaranteed to be bursting with pretension and ferocious mark ups. Braced for the worst, I asked to sign; £70 for everything. What would you get for that in the West End?
Camel filters
Until you work out that no Emirati is actually shown, you could be forgiven for thinking one half of this photo has it in for my theory that the people of Abu Dhabi are uncommonly attractive.
A man would say this, or at least the majority of men would, but the women look especially fetching even when you can see so little of them.
No one has ever been known to consult Salut! for fashion tips.
But this site knows what it likes and finds it easy to conclude that the design of abayas has been perfected to reach beyond self-evident discretion with an eye-catching blend of elegance and sex appeal. I also caught myself remarking the other day, in all innocence, on how handsome Emirati men seem to be.
You see proof of all this when visiting any of the big brash shopping malls, where store after store stocks the most stylish of traditional clothes. And the groups of white-clad local men and slim young women in their black robes have a distinct visual edge over gangs of hoodies and apprentice fag-ash Lils in Identikit British arcades.
The seasoned expat who is my essential guide to Abu Dhabi says she finds men either unattractive or "stunning", with no half measures. "But a good looking Emirati in his dishdash certainly cuts a very fine figure."
My own encounter with local dress custom came during a desert trip at the weekend. The ruddy cheeks have nothing to do with the alcohol unexpectedly on sale (later) with the meal, everything to do with having caught a spot of sun on the beach earlier in the day.
But that same new friend has seen the damning photographic evidence and is unimpressed. "I'd kill that off straight away if I were you," she said cruelly. I suspect she has me in my mind when applying her judgement of male looks to the British?
A man would say this, or at least the majority of men would, but the women look especially fetching even when you can see so little of them.
No one has ever been known to consult Salut! for fashion tips.
But this site knows what it likes and finds it easy to conclude that the design of abayas has been perfected to reach beyond self-evident discretion with an eye-catching blend of elegance and sex appeal. I also caught myself remarking the other day, in all innocence, on how handsome Emirati men seem to be.
You see proof of all this when visiting any of the big brash shopping malls, where store after store stocks the most stylish of traditional clothes. And the groups of white-clad local men and slim young women in their black robes have a distinct visual edge over gangs of hoodies and apprentice fag-ash Lils in Identikit British arcades.
The seasoned expat who is my essential guide to Abu Dhabi says she finds men either unattractive or "stunning", with no half measures. "But a good looking Emirati in his dishdash certainly cuts a very fine figure."
My own encounter with local dress custom came during a desert trip at the weekend. The ruddy cheeks have nothing to do with the alcohol unexpectedly on sale (later) with the meal, everything to do with having caught a spot of sun on the beach earlier in the day.
But that same new friend has seen the damning photographic evidence and is unimpressed. "I'd kill that off straight away if I were you," she said cruelly. I suspect she has me in my mind when applying her judgement of male looks to the British?
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
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
Flat out, on and and off court
My new Romanian friends - that's them above, and one has just clipped my sporting wings, of which more later - tell me that the occupancy rate for flats in Abu Dhabi is 99 per cent, as opposed to a more typical 80 per cent in other capitals.
No wonder we're all having such problems finding places to rent.
One colleague struck lucky in his first few days, but is now enduring a spot of uncertainty about a deal he believed to be secure.
I have been assured that there will be an apartment available for me. It comes at a rather higher price than I wanted to pay but is precisely where I need to be - on the superb Corniche - if leaving the south of France is to make sense.
In fact there will be two flats in the same development, the other earmarked for someone who is part of the new newspaper's strong advance contingent of north Americans and therefore calls me her co-worker.
Co-worker is just one of the words I am urging her to discard before we become neighbours. But that should leave her plenty of time to retain it in her vocabulary since the building may not be finished before February.
There is frantic building going on to enable Abu Dhabi to cope more smoothly with the influx of expats drawn by its phenomenal growth. But house-hunting is certain to remain an arduous and stressful pursuit for the forseeable future.
Another consequence of the expansion is that some of the places in which westerners like to socialise - hotels or clubs with pools and/or beaches, sports and gym facilities and the right to serve alcohol - have waiting lists.
That, as I have already noted, is the case at The Club.
Having paid 500 dirhams, about £70, for a one month vistor's membership card, I have been working flat out to get my money's worth.
The Club is not everyone's cup of tea, and I have heard the odd snooty putdown. But it is a well established and well run centre where people of 80 nationalities gather to relax.
It is also a good place to watch football, though being a good place doesn't necessarily help with the results. It has one of Abu Dhabi's few badminton courts, a fair choice of restaurants and a busy entertainment programme.
Along with the curry evenings and quiz nights, there are concerts, informal music sessions and after-dinner speaking events. The latter always seem to be hosted by the comedian Jim Davidson and I see from old posters, which were still displayed until yesterday afternoon before finally disappearing, that the themes have included two "So you want to be......." nights, Kate Adie and David Mills talking about being TV correspondents and Rick Wakeman on the life of a rock musician.
There was also a "Gentlemen's Football Dinner", which rugby snobs would call a blatant contradiction in terms. The speakers were Ian Rush and two chaps with strong Sunderland connections, Peter Reid (monkey head according to the gentlemen who support Newcastle United) and Dave Watson, a star of the 1973 FA Cup winning team.
Today, I booked a desert expedition at The Club and bought a book published in 2002 to mark the 40th anniversary of its formation. Contrary to my previous assertion, Michael Daly, oilman/industrialist/co-founder and former chairman declares in the book that it was never the British Club, always The Club.
Michael, an exceptional character by all accounts, died very recently. He was a Corkman, which may explain his eagerness to correct what is obviously a common misunderstanding.
In that mission, I am afraid, he failed. Virtually every expat of my acquaintance and all taxi drivers still know it as the British Club. At least one of the plaques and a thankyou note from the commanders of Royal Navy and US Navy warships, the crews of which had enjoyed R&R there, also refer to the British Club.
British or stateless, it was today the scene of my downfall on the badminton court. After a glorious triumph last week over an Aussie upstart, John, I came a rather embarrassing second to one Cristian Sucu, the Romanian mentioned earlier. Darting to and fro between old scoring rules and new brought me little advantange; he saw me off 21-6, 15-1, 21-6.
Spot the difference....
Watching the deadly serious warm-up stretches of his wife, Irina, I suspected she would hammer me too.
But I wasn't as pleased to beat her quite easily as I was to learn that Christian is not only 34 and superfit but was not so long ago one of Romania's leading players, as high as 15th in the national rankings. "There was a big gap betwen fifth best and the rest," he claimed, utterly failing to tarnish my reflected glory.
And in any case, poor John then completed the cheering up process by sending a text message saying he's booked a court* for tomorrow.
ps Update 24 hours later......it went to script
No wonder we're all having such problems finding places to rent.
One colleague struck lucky in his first few days, but is now enduring a spot of uncertainty about a deal he believed to be secure.
I have been assured that there will be an apartment available for me. It comes at a rather higher price than I wanted to pay but is precisely where I need to be - on the superb Corniche - if leaving the south of France is to make sense.
In fact there will be two flats in the same development, the other earmarked for someone who is part of the new newspaper's strong advance contingent of north Americans and therefore calls me her co-worker.
Co-worker is just one of the words I am urging her to discard before we become neighbours. But that should leave her plenty of time to retain it in her vocabulary since the building may not be finished before February.
There is frantic building going on to enable Abu Dhabi to cope more smoothly with the influx of expats drawn by its phenomenal growth. But house-hunting is certain to remain an arduous and stressful pursuit for the forseeable future.
Another consequence of the expansion is that some of the places in which westerners like to socialise - hotels or clubs with pools and/or beaches, sports and gym facilities and the right to serve alcohol - have waiting lists.
That, as I have already noted, is the case at The Club.
Having paid 500 dirhams, about £70, for a one month vistor's membership card, I have been working flat out to get my money's worth.
The Club is not everyone's cup of tea, and I have heard the odd snooty putdown. But it is a well established and well run centre where people of 80 nationalities gather to relax.
It is also a good place to watch football, though being a good place doesn't necessarily help with the results. It has one of Abu Dhabi's few badminton courts, a fair choice of restaurants and a busy entertainment programme.
Along with the curry evenings and quiz nights, there are concerts, informal music sessions and after-dinner speaking events. The latter always seem to be hosted by the comedian Jim Davidson and I see from old posters, which were still displayed until yesterday afternoon before finally disappearing, that the themes have included two "So you want to be......." nights, Kate Adie and David Mills talking about being TV correspondents and Rick Wakeman on the life of a rock musician.
There was also a "Gentlemen's Football Dinner", which rugby snobs would call a blatant contradiction in terms. The speakers were Ian Rush and two chaps with strong Sunderland connections, Peter Reid (monkey head according to the gentlemen who support Newcastle United) and Dave Watson, a star of the 1973 FA Cup winning team.
Today, I booked a desert expedition at The Club and bought a book published in 2002 to mark the 40th anniversary of its formation. Contrary to my previous assertion, Michael Daly, oilman/industrialist/co-founder and former chairman declares in the book that it was never the British Club, always The Club.
Michael, an exceptional character by all accounts, died very recently. He was a Corkman, which may explain his eagerness to correct what is obviously a common misunderstanding.
In that mission, I am afraid, he failed. Virtually every expat of my acquaintance and all taxi drivers still know it as the British Club. At least one of the plaques and a thankyou note from the commanders of Royal Navy and US Navy warships, the crews of which had enjoyed R&R there, also refer to the British Club.
British or stateless, it was today the scene of my downfall on the badminton court. After a glorious triumph last week over an Aussie upstart, John, I came a rather embarrassing second to one Cristian Sucu, the Romanian mentioned earlier. Darting to and fro between old scoring rules and new brought me little advantange; he saw me off 21-6, 15-1, 21-6.
Spot the difference....
Watching the deadly serious warm-up stretches of his wife, Irina, I suspected she would hammer me too.
But I wasn't as pleased to beat her quite easily as I was to learn that Christian is not only 34 and superfit but was not so long ago one of Romania's leading players, as high as 15th in the national rankings. "There was a big gap betwen fifth best and the rest," he claimed, utterly failing to tarnish my reflected glory.
And in any case, poor John then completed the cheering up process by sending a text message saying he's booked a court* for tomorrow.
ps Update 24 hours later......it went to script
Bob Newhart and an introduction to shisha
To three of the people around the table in a Lebanese restaurant in Abu Dhabi, smoking from a shisha pipe seemed a jolly enough wheeze. A strawberry flavoured joint was duly ordered, and soon the wheezing began.
My colleague Laura Koot (seen above) is a fit and healthy Canadian who has never smoked cigarettes but appears as a chain smoker in a recurring dream of hers. After a few puffs, she was coughing. One of the others admitted to feeling a little odd. The third reported no greater sensation than that produced by a thin vapour.
"Do you have any idea," Lizzie, our seasoned expat, asked gravely next morning, "how many cigarettes a shisha is the equivalent of? Seventy-five."
That's more than twice as many as I smoked at the peak of my smoking career. Because I also have a recurring dream, in which I have taken it up again and crept back towards 20-a-day while assuring myself I can stop any time I want to, I resisted the invitation to join in.
Laura and Rob McKenzie, (also pictured), and our third shisha debutant will doubtless experience no further effects of their brief encounter with Middle Eastern tradition. None of them has the least intention of abandoning present abstinence from tobacco.
But here in the Emirates, devotees may also need to contemplate life after shisha. In a refinement of the anti-smoking legislation enacted in Britain and Ireland, and being introduced in stages even in Gitane-powered France, a draft law would restrict shisha smoking to private homes. One of the federal components of the UAE, Sharjah, has already banned the common practice of smoking outdoors.
Lizzie may be right or wrong with her estimate of one shisha equalling 75 fags. But there seems broad agreement that while it may come in all sorts of flavours - apricot, mint, apple and grape among them - it is not terribly good for you.
But should it be banned?
Ex-smokers frequently become the most fervent of prohibitionists, but I harbour no such militant zeal. As a smoker who no longer smokes, I have avoided pious condemnation of those around me who wish to light up.
I draw the line at inconsiderate oafs who blow smoke across the table at you during a meal, and I certainly used to find it vile, even when I was still hooked, to travel in the smoking carriages of trains or upstairs on buses. But I have never particularly wanted to see a ban on smoking in all public places, and would probably allow smokers' corners in pubs and restaurants.
Owners of some UAE establishments where shisha is traditionally taken fear for their commercial survival. In our restaurant last night, most tables ordered shisha and the smokers included local women. A ban would hit such places hard.
The proposed law is currently being examined by justice ministry officials. Anti-smoking campaigners are already preparing a fallback position to cover the possibility of defeat: a call for strict regulations to include the banning of shisha being smoked in the presence of children.
But if only because Rob has suggested that I remind him a little of Bob Newhart - which he insists is a compliment - I cannot help thinking back to the hilarious Newhart sketch about Sir Walter Raleigh calling head office from the West Indies with news of his discovery of tobacco.
How would he have tried to sell shisha? "Remember that shipment of leaves that you roll up, stick it in your mouth and set fire to?" he might have begun his pitch. "Just you wait until you see this pipe I've found to make it a whole lot simpler. Only down side is that it's 75 times more likely to kill you."
My colleague Laura Koot (seen above) is a fit and healthy Canadian who has never smoked cigarettes but appears as a chain smoker in a recurring dream of hers. After a few puffs, she was coughing. One of the others admitted to feeling a little odd. The third reported no greater sensation than that produced by a thin vapour.
"Do you have any idea," Lizzie, our seasoned expat, asked gravely next morning, "how many cigarettes a shisha is the equivalent of? Seventy-five."
That's more than twice as many as I smoked at the peak of my smoking career. Because I also have a recurring dream, in which I have taken it up again and crept back towards 20-a-day while assuring myself I can stop any time I want to, I resisted the invitation to join in.
Laura and Rob McKenzie, (also pictured), and our third shisha debutant will doubtless experience no further effects of their brief encounter with Middle Eastern tradition. None of them has the least intention of abandoning present abstinence from tobacco.
But here in the Emirates, devotees may also need to contemplate life after shisha. In a refinement of the anti-smoking legislation enacted in Britain and Ireland, and being introduced in stages even in Gitane-powered France, a draft law would restrict shisha smoking to private homes. One of the federal components of the UAE, Sharjah, has already banned the common practice of smoking outdoors.
Lizzie may be right or wrong with her estimate of one shisha equalling 75 fags. But there seems broad agreement that while it may come in all sorts of flavours - apricot, mint, apple and grape among them - it is not terribly good for you.
But should it be banned?
Ex-smokers frequently become the most fervent of prohibitionists, but I harbour no such militant zeal. As a smoker who no longer smokes, I have avoided pious condemnation of those around me who wish to light up.
I draw the line at inconsiderate oafs who blow smoke across the table at you during a meal, and I certainly used to find it vile, even when I was still hooked, to travel in the smoking carriages of trains or upstairs on buses. But I have never particularly wanted to see a ban on smoking in all public places, and would probably allow smokers' corners in pubs and restaurants.
Owners of some UAE establishments where shisha is traditionally taken fear for their commercial survival. In our restaurant last night, most tables ordered shisha and the smokers included local women. A ban would hit such places hard.
The proposed law is currently being examined by justice ministry officials. Anti-smoking campaigners are already preparing a fallback position to cover the possibility of defeat: a call for strict regulations to include the banning of shisha being smoked in the presence of children.
But if only because Rob has suggested that I remind him a little of Bob Newhart - which he insists is a compliment - I cannot help thinking back to the hilarious Newhart sketch about Sir Walter Raleigh calling head office from the West Indies with news of his discovery of tobacco.
How would he have tried to sell shisha? "Remember that shipment of leaves that you roll up, stick it in your mouth and set fire to?" he might have begun his pitch. "Just you wait until you see this pipe I've found to make it a whole lot simpler. Only down side is that it's 75 times more likely to kill you."
Abu Dhabi postcard
Here are some more or less random images of my new home town, Abu Dhabi.
It takes me longer than some to gain my bearings in unfamiliar territory. While I am no stranger to the Gulf, my previous experience of the United Arab Emirates was restricted to a couple of hours in transit, twice, at Dubai.
Abu Dhabi is not Dubai. Those who know both cities are better placed to judge, but most tell me Dubai is a lot livelier, Abu Dhabi more conservative and restrained. Both appear to possess ambition and initiative in abundance. Abu Dhabi wants an international film festival; it launches one. That bit of the coastline needs to be reclaimed; it happens.
The English language newspaper I am here to help create will identify the contrasts and similarities. But more of that at some future stage.
For now, I will allow myself a few preliminary thoughts. My hotel, the Intercontinental, is smart and functional with splendid pool and beach, but the Emirates Palace, where that film festival has just had its debut, is something else.
I overheard a Welshman telling someone back home of the shimmering grandeur of the first seven-star hotel he had ever visited. It drips state-of-the-art opulence, giving it a clear edge over the great palaces dotted along the Croisette in Cannes.
It is the sort of place in which you'd love to stay provided you could have the bill sent to a kindly employer or host.
After a quick tour of the Emirates Palace, it came as something of a prosaic anti-climax to learn from one of the army of Pakistani taxi drivers here that my office is in a part of town known as Water Tank. It is a common feature of Abu Dhabi's geography to refer not to street addresses but some landmark or function. So this is where lorries used to load up with H2O for distribution around the capital. And there's also a self-explanatory "Passport Road".
Incidentally, as we drove past the vast palaces of the Sheikhs on our way into town, the same driver explained in impeccable English why he opposed the return to his homeland of Benazir Bhutto. He had admired her father but considers her corrupt. This was the day before the grotesque terrorist attack on her procession, though it perhaps took no great foresight on his part to predict that Bhutto's defiant gesture would lead to bloodshed.
From the same driver came a useful mall-by-mall guide to local shopping. The Abu Dhabi Mall, pictured above, looks and feels vast but is evidently outstripped by the Marina Mall.
It was an interesting conversation, and I have subsequently been surprised to find how few of his countrymen driving taxis here have more than a few hesitant words of English.
I am kicking myself sharply for not having noted the man's phone number. Several non-Anglophone Pakistani cabbies later, I realise what a huge asset he would be to have on call in this city.
It takes me longer than some to gain my bearings in unfamiliar territory. While I am no stranger to the Gulf, my previous experience of the United Arab Emirates was restricted to a couple of hours in transit, twice, at Dubai.
Abu Dhabi is not Dubai. Those who know both cities are better placed to judge, but most tell me Dubai is a lot livelier, Abu Dhabi more conservative and restrained. Both appear to possess ambition and initiative in abundance. Abu Dhabi wants an international film festival; it launches one. That bit of the coastline needs to be reclaimed; it happens.
The English language newspaper I am here to help create will identify the contrasts and similarities. But more of that at some future stage.
For now, I will allow myself a few preliminary thoughts. My hotel, the Intercontinental, is smart and functional with splendid pool and beach, but the Emirates Palace, where that film festival has just had its debut, is something else.
I overheard a Welshman telling someone back home of the shimmering grandeur of the first seven-star hotel he had ever visited. It drips state-of-the-art opulence, giving it a clear edge over the great palaces dotted along the Croisette in Cannes.
It is the sort of place in which you'd love to stay provided you could have the bill sent to a kindly employer or host.
After a quick tour of the Emirates Palace, it came as something of a prosaic anti-climax to learn from one of the army of Pakistani taxi drivers here that my office is in a part of town known as Water Tank. It is a common feature of Abu Dhabi's geography to refer not to street addresses but some landmark or function. So this is where lorries used to load up with H2O for distribution around the capital. And there's also a self-explanatory "Passport Road".
Incidentally, as we drove past the vast palaces of the Sheikhs on our way into town, the same driver explained in impeccable English why he opposed the return to his homeland of Benazir Bhutto. He had admired her father but considers her corrupt. This was the day before the grotesque terrorist attack on her procession, though it perhaps took no great foresight on his part to predict that Bhutto's defiant gesture would lead to bloodshed.
From the same driver came a useful mall-by-mall guide to local shopping. The Abu Dhabi Mall, pictured above, looks and feels vast but is evidently outstripped by the Marina Mall.
It was an interesting conversation, and I have subsequently been surprised to find how few of his countrymen driving taxis here have more than a few hesitant words of English.
I am kicking myself sharply for not having noted the man's phone number. Several non-Anglophone Pakistani cabbies later, I realise what a huge asset he would be to have on call in this city.
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