BLOG 22
Day 96
Saturday 15 April. Sunny and hot. 30ºC. Sea, Slight. Arabian Sea on passage to Dubai. Position 15deg 56 N, 7deg 54E. Course 317, speed 18. Wind Force 2 from NW.
Yet another relaxing day at sea. We drifted around after breakfast before attending the port lecture on Muscat, which we visit after Dubai, then trying a little people-watching. I don’t know who used illustrate those saucy postcards of the 40s and 50s, but if he were still alive he could find much new material on the decks of QM2. I know that I have commented on this aspect of decorum before, but I cannot resist reiterating the points for this new batch of passengers. It is amazing what people will wear on holiday for the sake of a tan and skin cancer. We saw enormous women wearing bikinis, with bellies on them like badly squeezed tubes of toothpaste; older women with breasts barely decent, bursting out of their bathing costumes like something out of a Regency drama; men with skinny white legs, varicose veins, long black socks and sandals; and men with enormous stomachs as if they were pregnant. I saw one man who wasn’t even wearing a bra. I am not exactly Adonis myself, and budgie smugglers do not flatter me (no, no – it’s true). For that reason, I dress with a sense of dignity and cover the frightening bits, polishing my deck shoes every other day and retaining my shirt in public at all times. I do confess that, daringly, as a concession to the heat, I have taken to removing my tie during the daylight hours, but that is as far as the nudity has gone. The fact is, it is so intensely hot that neither of us could last longer than twenty minutes under that sun anyway; yet some of these people are piling on sunburn on top of sunburn.
The crew were practising anti piracy measures this morning in preparation for our passage from Muscat to Aqaba, when we pass through dodgy waters. As it is, we are steaming up the western coast of India, skirting the risk area. I had already noticed fire hoses rigged on the upper deck and pointing over the side as an initial precaution against boarding; I believe we may also be taking onboard some additional security personnel who, I presume, might be armed contractors. The Captain told us last night that further exercises would take place and recounted a (true) tale of when the ship was celebrating the traditional ‘Crossing the Line’ ceremony and some ship’s staff were dressed up as pirates, heading aft to the swimming pool. Unfortunately, their passage, dressed in eye patches, tricorn hats, cutlasses and the odd parrot, took them through the central atrium just as some old dear was waking up. She was terrified, hid behind a pillar, then – when they had gone – scuttled over to the Purser’s desk to report that pirates had boarded.
I met the Staff Chief Engineer – the deputy Chief Engineer and equivalent to my job as Senior Engineer in HMS NONSUCH – at last night’s cocktail party, and we had a good shouted conversation about fuel specific gravity, gas turbine blades and the purity of boiler feed water. He came from Carlisle and was due to retire in two years to cultivate his allotment, and we got on very well, especially when he heard that I was born in South Shields, which earns me the sobriquet of ‘Sand Dancer’. We would have embarked on a further conversation about condensers and strum boxes, with perhaps a diversion to discuss drop forging, but unfortunately we had to break off to listen to the Captain. Alas, a conversation that I will never have. Very nice bloke.
Day 97
Easter Day. 16 April. Entering Gulf of Oman. 30ºC. Wind Force 6 from NW. Clocks were retarded yet again last night to Dubai time, making us three hours ahead of UK. Beware: we are getting closer, folks; your honeymoon period will soon be over.
I stood on the balcony at 0800 this morning and gazed at a deep blue sea, flecked only by a few catspaws. Glancing forward at the starboard bridge wing, I was rewarded by the sight of the Captain out on the catwalk, having a quick burn. QM2 does not have open bridge wings or any external area, so the Captain was out on a narrow maintenance catwalk, breaching the air conditioned citadel in the process. Well, if you can’t have a sneaky fag in your own ship, then what can you do? Rank should have its privileges.
We took another blistering walk across the hot deck in the blinding sunlight at 0830 to get to breakfast. It’s a tough life at sea, but someone has to do it for Britain and I know that you appreciate the sacrifice that we are making.
It being Easter Day, we went to the non-denominational service led by the Captain in the Royal Court Theatre at 1000 (as mentioned in Blog 21, we passed on the episcopalian service held at 0800). The service was remarkably well attended and enjoyable; we even had a sort of a choir in the form of five of the Cunard singers, who sang one hymn. I am not sure that those attending were familiar with church services, as the couple next to us sang no hymns and spoke no prayers or responses, despite the words being on the sheet in front of them. Also, the rendering of the hymn by the ‘choir’ was followed by applause in some quarters – a ‘first’ for me in a church service.
I attended a very good lecture by an ex USAF Officer on the American air bases in Britain since WW2 (for some reason, Jane was not interested). He proved to be a lively and very informative speaker, explaining the huge number of bases in England during the War (I cannot recall the exact number, but I think it was over a hundred), the number during the Cold War, and the number in the next five years (one). He also explained how the United States Air Force (USAF) had evolved from the wartime United States Army Air Force (USAAF) because of jealousy of the RAF existing as a separate service rather than being a corps of the army, as the USAAF was. The USAF got their new identity and uniforms in 1946, but, for some unfathomable reason, kept the army ranks. There were, of course, lots of pictures of aircraft, which was most gratifying. I did not realise that the ubiquitous Dakota is not called that by the Americans; Dakota is a British nomenclature. The Americans call it a Gooney Bird (= albatross). Our lecturer also covered the various operations that the US bases in Britain have supported, starting with the Berlin Air Lift in 1948-49 (jointly with the RAF). I knew that it had been a huge operation, but I did not realise that it involved an average of one flight per minute, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. That is quite an undertaking. The decision by de Gaulle to insist on the removal of all US bases and servicemen from France in 1966 led to the bases being moved to Britain. Apparently, the US ambassador was summoned to the presidential palace and told of the demand that all US servicemen should be removed, and the ambassador responded, “Does that include those who are dead and buried in French soil?”. One in the eye for the French, who remained uncooperative during the US attack on Libya in the 1980s, denying the use of French airspace. The advent of cruise missiles and ICBMs has reduced the need for US bases in Britain today, and the latest decision is to reduce to just one, Lakenheath, by 2020.
It being a Sunday, we partook of a Pimms (Jane) and an amontillado (me) before a lunch of roast lamb. Alas, the food was disappointing. The lamb looked good, and was very tender despite being as thick as a steak, but the flavour was weird and Jane left half of hers. It certainly didn’t taste like lamb. I am not sure what they do with some of the food: they seem to take straightforward British fare and muck it about a bit. After a week onboard I can now comment more fairly on the differences between Princess Grill (our outward journey) and Britannia Club (now): on the whole, the food is just not as good, though it can be excellent on occasions. In some ways this could be taken as a pleasing conclusion, as it would be a bit annoying if we had paid all that extra money for Grill tickets only to find that the food was just as good for hoi polloi. But it is not that the food now is more ordinary: that would be acceptable; it is that it does not always match the description in terms of quality, taste and quantity, and it is inconsistent. To give an example from the other day, I ordered beef tournedos and it was absolutely superb, possibly the best I have ever had; last Sunday we had roast beef and – again – it was perfect; yet on another occasion I ordered prawn cocktail as a starter and it came as three (yes 3) small prawns on a large plate with four drops of rose marie sauce around it and a sprig of lettuce. You see something on the menu and you think, ‘oh that will be good’, but when it comes it turns out to be something different, something bland, or something small (or all three). As you know, I am not one to complain or moan about things as a rule, but I must make an exception here for the sake of this factual record. Sorry, did you say something?
We thought we would sunbathe after lunch. Believe it or not, it is the first time we have done that as a dedicated activity since we left UK, being wary of too much sun. But the large sun deck on Deck 13 is just outside our cabin, so we thought it was convenient to pop out and get twenty minutes each side. Out we went, but we had not allowed for the relative wind across the deck, which was ferocious. We tried lying on the sun beds, but first my hat blew off, then my book skidded across the deck, then my shirt went. I chased after these items before they disappeared over the side, then heard a grating noise as the wind caught the whole sun bed and started to move that too. So we gave up after 15 minutes, which was just as well as our faces were already beginning to feel the effects of wind burn. As a matter of interest, we have now crossed the latitude where the sun passes directly overhead throughout the day, and it now crosses the southern segment from east to west again, as opposed to the northern segment like it did in Australia. So we are back in the northern hemisphere.
Gazing over our balcony (in the shade) at the sea, we were rewarded by the sight of Flying Fish skittering away from the ship in considerable numbers. They travel quite a distance through the air – perhaps a hundred yards or more – and are larger than we expected at about a foot long. Fascinating. There is always something to look at at sea.
For some reason, we felt the urge to break with routine and have an aperitif before dinner, the latter taken earlier so that we could attend a show called ‘The Three Tenors’ which was about – er – three men singing. So 1830 found us in the Chart Room, a tasteful and very luxurious bar that we have rarely used before, ordering a kir and gin and tonic which we drank as we watched the dark sea roll by. Being us, of course, we also did some people-watching as folk drifted into the bar. It was a Black Tie evening and it was interesting to observe what some women’s idea of evening wear was, with selections ranging from lengths ‘short’ to ‘long’; from styles ‘elegant to ‘frump’; and from sizes ‘slim frigate’ to ‘stately as a galleon’. Of course, there was not so much variation in the men, Black Tie being fairly uniform, but their choice of shoes was usually their weak point: understandably, few could afford proper patent leather shoes but, of the substitutes, most were filthy or inappropriate (we saw one pair of shoes that looked like beetle crushers from the 1950s). It is amazing how many men today do not bother to polish their shoes, and some of the footwear would have been better employed in the garden. Standards, standards. Cherry Blossom and Kiwi are not expensive.
We took Foi Gras and Beef Wellington with a glass of Shiraz for dinner, both reasonable though the Wellington not as good as Jane’s (how could it be?). Baked Alaska with cherries flambéed in kirsch rounded the meal off. The theatre was packed for ‘The Three Tenors’, despite us getting there 15 minutes early. As you know, we have not been much taken by the evening mass entertainment onboard, though the classical concerts during the day have usually been excellent. But we keep hoping that something to our tastes will come along in the evening, and we dip our toes in the water from time to time. In the past, the ‘dipping’ process has consisted of us nipping into the back of the theatre during a performance, standing for a bit by the door, then nipping hastily out again. This time, ‘The Three Tenors’ sounded more promising, so we entered in good time and took a seat. Oh dear, yet again a disappointment. The songs ranged from opera to the contemporary, performed (as Jane put it) ‘with them jigging around all the time’. Though not a fan of opera, I would probably have enjoyed it if the singing had been good; alas, it was mediocre and the 45 minutes dragged by like having a tooth extracted without anaesthetic. Well, we did try. Should have gone to the cinema to watch ‘La La Land’, which comes highly unrecommended by most friends who have seen it.
Day 98
Easter Monday, 17 April. On passage to Dubai, in the Gulf of Oman, about 50 nm from Iran. Position at noon: 24deg 43N 58deg 40E. Course 305 Light airs. Haze. 28ºC.
It was an early start today for no other reasons than that our body clocks had not yet adapted to the changes in time zone and the sun had risen. I sat outside on the balcony in my bathrobe while Jane did things in the bathroom, and was struck by a strange screeching noise that I had never heard before. Investigating, I discovered that the noise was seabirds – later identified as Cape Gannets – swooping low over the water and feeding on Flying Fish that were skimming away from the ship. It was quite entertaining to watch, as the gannets occasionally dived deep into the clear water after the fish, leaving a fine trail of bubbles behind them. Clearly, we were near land.
We had ordered breakfast in our cabin and we took the tray outside on the balcony, which was lovely and idyllic until the people in the cabin next door came out onto their balcony and we heard a loud male Yorkshire voice bellow from behind the intervening partition,
” EEE, DORIS, LOOK! DOLPHINS! EEEE! ‘INT IT MARVELLOUS!
This was followed by a quieter female voice saying,
“No Fred. Arr don’t think they’re dolphins. They might be Flying Fish”.
“FLYING FISH! AYE! ‘APPEN THEY MIGHT BE! RECKON THEY MUST ‘AVE BIN DRIVEN TO THE SURFACE BY THEM DOLPHINS!
“Shush, Fred, keep yer voice down”.
But it was too late, the idyllic moment had been spoiled. I despair of my fellow passengers: even the screens don’t keep them out. We seem to have a lot of descendants of the Wars of the Roses onboard for this leg, by the way, Cunard must have bought a job lot from Manchester or Leeds or somewhere north of Watford (I say this as a true northerner, not someone who comes from the Midlands). Well, that’s insulted at least four of my friends, and I didn’t have all that many to start with.
On non-lecture days there is always a need to find somewhere quiet to spend the time while one’s steward cleans the cabin. We quite favour the Commodore Club, which is up for’d under the bridge and has lovely views over the bow. On this occasion, however, the bar staff were practising how far and how well they could throw empty bottles into the gash bin, so we opted instead for the library on the deck below. This had equally good views over the bow, and was quieter, until Consumptive Colin two seats away started sneezing and coughing. Not that delicate little ‘tsssst’ of a sneeze like ladies seem to do, but the explosive, Vesuvius, male version, catching some mucous in his hand and spreading the rest in a fine spray of droplets across the library. Then the coughing started: deep and raucous and rich with phlegm. As Ian Fleming once wrote, ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action’. Well this bloke would have got some enemy action from me if Jane hadn’t starting hissing at me in warning at my deep sighs and tuts. At one point we thought the patient had sensibly got up to die elsewhere, but, no, he just stood up behind his chair to increase the range. In the end, we got up and left: it was like living in a sanatorium. If we don’t come down with something after this then it will be a miracle.
The ‘cruise cough’, by the way, is a common characteristic of our voyage experience. It is noticeable on the days of embarkation and for about a week afterwards, often on the balconies as people explore their surroundings for the first time, but sometimes on tour buses. First one starts up, then another answers, then another joins in. It is like pterodactyls calling to each other across a primeval forest. The phenomenon is the symptom of a few generous people who take the altruistic view that their germs should not miss out on a good holiday, so they bring them along for the ride. The germs love it, of course, and make lots of new friends – which is the aim of every cruise operator. Entirely coincidentally, today the Captain came on the broadcast to announce that the norovirus had taken hold with a few people onboard and Fumigation Stage 1 had been implemented (or something like that). Soon the smoke from the after funnels will be turning black as they burn the bodies.
Lunchtime brought some excitement in the form of the Royal Navy Liaison Officer (that I didn’t know we had) and his announcement that a Royal Navy Merlin helicopter, based at RNAS Culdrose, would shortly be buzzing the ship. As the aircraft only has a three hour endurance, it presumably had not come from Cornwall that day. On cue, along came the mighty machine, making several passes down both sides of the ship to the accompanying commentary of the liaison officer, who explained the aircraft’s role, armament and capability. Of course, the Merlin was part of Naval Party something-or-other (he didn’t actually say) which was working with the Omani Navy to provide ‘security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions’. I am still curious how the Royal Navy Officer got onboard: there hadn’t been a helicopter drop as far as I knew (the helo deck is just outside our cabin), and we hadn’t stopped for a boat transfer. Maybe he got on in Colombo or maybe he was always there, on exchange.
We watched the last classical concert by the Swedish guitarist in the afternoon. He was, again, very good, but this time he included some contemporary pieces that sounded like a series of different notes played at random. Not quite our cup of tea this time, but thank you for the experience.
At teatime we received further excitement in the form of a maritime patrol aircraft, flying low on the starboard side. I did not see any markings, so cannot comment on its origins, but it was definitely military. It was a four-engined turboprop aircraft, silver grey, very slim. I suppose it could just as easily have come from Iran as Oman. Iran was visible as a brown smudge on the starboard beam at the time – perhaps 15nm away (we were in the northbound channel of the approaches to the Straits of Hormuz).
The good news is that we heard this afternoon that we had been successful in our application to go on a ‘Dubai, the Golden City’ tour on arrival tomorrow. When we first applied, we were told that the tour was full, but that we could go on the reserve list. Somebody must have dropped out, because we now have the tickets. I have no idea where we are going – my wife handles all such matters (‘Dubai’ would be a good guess), so watch this space for the run-down.
Day 99
Wednesday 18 April. At Dubai, starboard side to. Hazy and hot. 32ºC. Light airs.
We were up at 0530 for our arrival alongside and our excursion into Dubai, scheduled to muster at 0730. The plan last night was to have breakfast in our cabin before departure (the restaurant does not open until 0800), but we discovered that room service breakfast does not start until 0700, so that was out. We could, of course, have broken our fast in the Kings Court self-service buffet (‘all you can eat with people who can eat all’) which opens at 0530. Don’t be silly. So we nibbled on a biscuit and a bunch of grapes on our balcony in the emerging dawn, Jane chuntering throughout about the imbecility of not providing an early service for those on trips. To cap it all, I mucked up the cafetière of coffee, and she had grounds floating in her breakfast cup. She didn’t have her happy face on that morning, and for some reason she resented me pointing that out.
Well, there we were, mustered in the theatre at 0730 under Flag 1 for the ‘Golden Dubai Tour’, viewing our fellow trippers with an assessing eye. We were the second to arrive, so we were well sorted on the precedence for getting on the bus. No more elbowing here. The people behind were grumbling like no tomorrow about QM2, saying the theatre was awful and not a patch on the QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the ship was too big, and the food wasn’t as good. Crikey, they could moan for England and I speak as an expert. It begged the question, “So why, pray, did you decide to book this cruise?”. The temptation was to get them ashore, shove them off the bus, and leave them there. And possibly pay a couple of Bedouin to work them over a bit. Fortunately, we were soon freed of this whinging, for we were off, following our guide with his little flag. Only to be shoved back by this enormously fat older couple carrying a huge rucksack, who appeared out of nowhere and barged in front of us. Oi, porkies, we were number two here. They waddled along ahead of us like two hippopotami that have emerged from the swamp looking for food, blocking the whole passageway and defying any attempt to get past. We got our own back when we hit the jetty, however, when the sleek agility of the springbok came into its own, for with one bound we were past, leaving them reeling in the slipstream. That’ll teach you to mess with Team Shacklepin. And we can’t even blame Johnny Foreigner this time: the two behemoths were English.
The bus tour was to be a whistle-stop tour of Dubai, compressed into five hours. Inevitably it could only skim the surface, but it would be better than us taking in yet another shopping mall and time – as ever – was limited. Our guide proved to be excellent and I wish now I had taken written notes. Here is what I can remember; you know all this anyway, I dare say, but I record it for posterity. Dubai is one of seven states that form the single country that is the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Each state has its own king, and they take turns to be Head of State of the whole country. The capital of UAE is Abu Dhabi and Dubai is the commercial and administrative centre. English is widely spoken as a second language. UAE only came into being in 1971 when the British left and the separate sheiks agreed to settle their petty squabbles and form a united country. From then on Dubai changed from being a tiny pearling village to being the enormous trading city that is is today. To be accurate, the state of Dubai consists of Dubai City, and desert. Even in the 1990s there were only seven skyscrapers in Dubai City, while now there are dozens including, of course, the highest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa, which is a hotel. Curiously and paradoxically, Dubai’s wealth lies not in oil, but in trading and tourism, the latter being the second highest income earner. Anyone can work in Dubai and there is no income tax, but no immigration is allowed – that is to say you cannot become a naturalised Emirati. The latter comprise only 11% of the population and are all middle class; they get free water, 50% subsidised electricity, free education, and free health care. Foreigners have to pay for these things though, for healthcare, employers are required by law to provide healthcare insurance. Dubai is a very rich country. Even the police cars are Ferraris, but – then – they have to be in order to catch the other Ferraris. Although Emirati are predominately Sunni Moslems, UAE is a tolerant society that embraces all cultures and creeds without hindrance, and local women do not cover their faces. Women wearing the full burka, our guide explained, will probably be tourists from Saudi Arabia. Or possibly Bradford. I put that last bit in myself. The city, when we visited it by the way, was shrouded in a heavy haze such that you could barely see the top of the Burj Khalifa. We learned later that this was partly the aftermath of a recent sand storm and partly a fairly normal state for Dubai: they rarely get dark blue skies and bright sunshine. It didn’t affect the heat, which was prodigious. It only rains for three months of the year.
The time it took to move from one highlight of the tour to the next, by bus, was itself a measure of the vastness of Dubai. The city was amazing. There were six-lane highways, all busy with cars, a very swish high-rise driverless train system (one train every two minutes), and a comprehensive underground Metro system. Everywhere were shopping malls and huge buildings, ultra modern and tall, yet well-spaced so that there was no sense of claustrophobia. New construction continued here and there, and it was quite clear from the excavation work that the city was quite literally constructed in the desert. The city has a rule that any building older than 1980 must either be brought up to modern acceptable aesthetic standard or be demolished and replaced. Overall, the city was very well-ordered, spotlessly clean and – yes folks – no graffiti! However, it was not at all pedestrian friendly: there were few pavements and no small cafés on the street; all that was in the many shopping malls. Water for drinking, and irrigation of the many gardens, came from a few wells, but most was extracted from seawater. The grass was an intense bright green colour and uniform: better than you would find even in England or Ireland, thanks to irrigation.
Our first stop was a beach to allow Jane to paddle in the Arabian Sea, and for everyone else to photograph the Burj Al Arab hotel: the most expensive in the world, the second tallest, and looking like the spinnaker tower in Portsmouth. There you could have a nice breakfast for about £70, but the rooms were harder to come by as the hotel is usually fully booked. I wonder if they have The Times and serve Wilkins ‘Tiptree’ marmalade? Onward to the largest mosque in Dubai for photographs (magnificent, but entrance was not part of the package, which was fine by us), then to a carpet museum for a pit stop.
A visit to a carpet museum does not sound terrible exciting, but it was only included in order for us to use the ‘facilities’. This was an adventure in itself. The Gents was quite normal, but the Ladies had the usual throne, but no lavatory paper; thoughtfully, however, a hosepipe was provided to give oneself a good sluicing down. Jane refused to reveal whether she had availed herself of the services of Mr Kärcher in this manner; I presume not, as it was not clear as to how she would have subsequently dried her lower half after the deluge. Mind you, her face did have a somewhat dazed expression, as if she had just taken part in a whole new dazzling experience. Having used the lavatories it seemed churlish not to look at the carpets on display and to listen to the sales patter. The carpets were actually framed, and hung on the walls like portraits. They really were magnificent and opulent, all hand-made in Dubai (not India) and woven in black or rich red, picked out with solid gold thread. The biggest (about the size of a hearth rug) took nine months to make and was on sale for about £4,000; the smallest, about the size of a bath rug, was for sale for about £400, which I thought was reasonable for solid gold thread and real jewels. Jane thought they were lovely, but a little gaudy for our conservative tastes, for which I heaved a sigh of relief.
Dubai Museum was next, housed under an ancient fort and very well put together to depict the history of Dubai . Unfortunately, it was also packed with Japanese and Chinese, all yabbering and pushing at once, so that it was hard to take in a lot of the displays. What with the yabbering, the heat, the dark, the sand and the congestion it was a bit like the Black Hole of Calcutta down there, and we beat a hasty exit.
Into the fresh (hot) air and onward we went to Dubai Creek to catch an abra, an Arab water taxi, across to the souks on the other side. The abra experience was hilarious. The boat was a wooden flush-decked craft about forty feet long, with no railings or bulwarks. We sat on a raised central platform on deck, while the coxswain stood in a hole in the engine compartment in the middle, whence he could see virtually nothing because of the passengers sitting in the way. His navigation and boat-handling skills were of the Navy Lark school of nautical practise, inspired by the phrase, “Never mind the torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead”. We shot backwards out of the berth without looking, bouncing off carefully placed wheels that formed fenders on the jetty, and narrowly avoiding another boat coming in, invoking much swearing in a foreign tongue. Engaging ahead, with the engine clattering like a cotton loom, we creamed across the harbour with the coxswain bellowing at the passengers in Arabic to get out of his line of sight. We then entered the berth on the other side, with our arrival a reverse repetition of the departure. Twice, I was convinced we were going to hit other boats and at one point we went full astern, with the engine screaming and in danger of firing out con rods and piston rings in all directions, while a string of Arab invectives followed us. Miraculously, we came alongside or, that is to say, we bounced off three bits of land and stopped, still afloat. And so to the souks, passing up the opportunity to try a camel milk gelato on the way.
We had ten minutes in the spice souk and forty minutes in the gold souk, both fascinating experiences and I was glad Jane was with me or I would have bought a bag of garam masala, two virginal sisters, a camel, and a Rolex watch for £150 (bargain!). The amount of bling in the gold souk would have kept Mr T happy for a year. Heaven knows how much all that stuff was worth. Few items had prices on them, so you were expected to haggle a deal. Only one item, a gold and emerald bracelet, took the memsahib’s eye and I was directed to go in and politely enquire about an Armed Forces and Pensioner’s discount. The necklace was £4,000. I blanched. I think the bloke would have haggled, but not down to the £100 that I had in mind. As the News of the World used to say, I made my excuses and left. As I said to Jane outside, I would have gone to £150, but what would she want jewels for when she had a rare little gem like me? The crash of a nearby pile-driver unfortunately drowned out her reply.
We had been warned before going ashore that women should dress modestly and cover up all naked flesh, so Jane wore a long sleeved top, trousers, socks and shoes. It came as a bit of a surprise, therefore, to see a substantially endowed British girl in the souk wearing just a boob tube, skimpy shorts, and sandals. Her boyfriend, also in shorts, had treated himself to a red chequered Arab headdress, presumably to blend in. I am fairly sure they weren’t off the ship, but I still thought it was a bit of an insult to the local people. No wonder these people get thrown into jail.
And so back to the ship, in a temperature of 35ºC. Dubai was an ‘end of segment’ port, that is to say the end of one mini cruise and the start of another. A new batch of passengers was joining to join for the last leg to Southampton. We examined these creatures – our future shipmates for twenty days – as they lined up in the terminal building with their luggage, their flip flops, their sombreros and their tattoos with a mixture of horror, helplessness and resignation. ‘Welcome to those seeking style and sophistication’ says the Captain’s message on the Daily Programme; well, that would cover three of them then; what about the rest?
Normally when you come off shore as an already-embarked passenger, you are fast-tracked through the boarding process, bypassing new-joining passengers with their heavy luggage etc. We were unfortunate in that, just as we arrived at the gate, they closed the fast-track lane and we had to lumber through with the cast from Benidorm. For some reason, Jane was beside herself at this. She was spitting like a wildcat on Speed, hopping from one foot to the other and complaining to the port staff, the emigration staff, the security staff, the ensign staff, and anyone else who wouldn’t listen. As someone in the queue pointed out, even if we had jumped the line past the security scanner, there was still a long lumbering caravan of humanity reaching all the way to the ship’s brow. But we did finally burst into the open air, where we changed down into third gear and shot past two wheelchairs, five suitcases and an ASDA bag to get onboard. At last, we were through the second security scanner at the entry port and heading for our restaurant for lunch; thank heavens lunch was extended to 1430 on embarkation days. We had already planned what we would have, starting with a long cold beer and ending with a large ice cream. Oh dear. The restaurant was deserted except for a few crumbs, the last serving having taken place an hour ago at 1315. We could, said a helpful waiter, get some food in the King’s Court self service buffet? We didn’t think so. The wildcat had turned into the Lord High Executioner by this time, and I was keeping well clear lest I be the one who lost his head. I swear that if Mr Cunard had crossed our path he would be a dead man (actually, he already is). We made it back to the cabin without her murdering any ship’s staff and took stock. We had not eaten since 0600, and that had only been a snack. We could muster half a biscuit, a green banana and three grapes. Then I hit on a cunning plan. The mini bar! Quickly, two ice cold Peronis were poured and quickly they disappeared down our necks. Second brainwave by The Master? Room Service. So finally, after a further half an hour’s wait, we tucked in to a club sandwich and a cheese panini with a few chips. It might not have been haut cuisine, but it filled a little hole. We then lay on the bed and promptly lost consciousness for the rest of the afternoon, zonked.
“PEEP, PEEP, PEEP, PEEP,PEEP, PEEP, PEEEEEEEEP”, blasted the main emergency alarm.
“For exercise, for exercise, the ship’s alarm is now being sounded and newly-joined passengers should collect their life jackets and proceed to their assembly stations taking care not to use the lifts…”.
I swear I was off that bed and searching for my steaming boots, overalls, anti-flash gear and life-jacket before I had even recovered consciousness. It was 1700 and the newbies were being briefed on how to get off. Oh well, we were going to get up anyway. Honestly.
We had a pleasant dinner, our first proper meal of the day, preceded by a Prosecco and accompanied by a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc (Zealand Estate, vintage not recorded). There was no entertainment onboard that night so we spent the evening after dinner on our balcony watching the lights of Dubai and basking in the warm evening. Lovely. One idle observation was how much dew was forming on the balcony rail and deck; we always thought desert countries had a dry heat, but clearly there was quite a bit of humidity after all and the temperature dropped fairly fast to the mid twenties. Interesting.
Day 100 (yes, one hundred)
Wednesday, 19 April. Hazy sunshine. 42ºC. At Dubai/Sailing for Muscat. Wind Force 3 from WNW.
I spent a disturbed night: I dreamt that I had lost my cap and could not find my Night Order Book and so could not direct the time for flashing the ship’s boilers, the warming through of the main turbines, the testing of the main throttles and the testing of the steering gear and ship’s sirens, thus preventing the ship from sailing. HMS NONSUCH has a great deal to answer for. Sleep was not a happy place, so we rose early and were first in to breakfast at 0800. This threw the waiting staff into some confusion, as they were used to a sleepy Jane coming in at 0915, yawning and stretching like something that had just crawled out of the double bottom tanks. We had considered going ashore during the forenoon to visit the huge Dubai Mall, but it did not open until 1000, the trip took 40 minutes each way, and we had to be back onboard by 1230. It was not going to be a goer. So the plan was to have an early breakfast, allowing us to make room for an early lunch, and therefore allowing us to watch the ship sail at 1300. Hence, we read books sitting on steamer chairs (we were sitting on the chairs, not the books) in the shade and passed the pleasant forenoon of those on holiday with nothing to do.
Now here’s an interesting observation in human psychology. One way of identifying a seasoned cruiser is whether or not they wear a lanyard around their necks, attached to their embarkation card. We all carry embarkation cards. They are the size of a credit card and operate our cabin doors, record our comings and goings to and from the ship, and act as credit cards to pay for drinks and goods onboard. They do not show a photograph or name: just a bar code, our voyage and our assembly station; but they do have the Cunard World Club colour on them (did I mention before that we were Gold members?). Well the cards are difficult to carry if you don’t have pockets, such as if you are wearing a bathing costume or if you are female, so the solution is to use an ID card holder on a lanyard, and slide the embarkation card in there. And this is the thing: your seasoned cruiser, whether wearing a bathing costume or being female or not, wears the lanyard at all times, like some member of MI5 popping out of the building for a sandwich. It is displayed in a casual, offhand, understated way, with the badge colour in full view, and demonstrates that one has cruised before, the unspoken comment being, “Oh, one has to wear these dreary things. I got this one during that cruise around Spitsbergen in ’89, the old one wore out”. Now you can get these lanyards at the ship’s gift shop for $8, but the ribbon bears the Cunard logo and could be considered a bit naff, as well as revealing to all that you are a newcomer with more money than sense. Seeing all this on the outward journey, Jane and I were determined to join the club for the return trip. We raised this difficult conundrum with Laura when we were in Australia, and discussed solutions at some length. Laura gave the matter weighty consideration, before solving the problem by giving us some old lanyards that she and Derek had (anything to stop us going on about it I expect). Jane’s has ‘Saab’ on it (Swedish image, goes with the strawberry blond hair and the icy look), and mine bears the inscription ‘University of Melbourne’. Thus, people seeing me walking purposefully around the ship with my distinguished silver hair, take me for an Australian professor of considerable erudition . Or maybe a university janitor.
We duly left Dubai at 1300, blasting our siren and rotating on our axis in the usual way. These actions never cease to inspire and impress me, despite having been onboard for so long. Absolutely nobody watched us. Even the berthing party had legged it. I think the city was taking a siesta. We passed the breakwater at 1315 in a temperature of 42ºC, the hottest we have ever experienced so far. Jane seemed very happy. With us we carry an anonymous and discreet party of ex special forces personnel, as a precaution against pirates. We haven’t seen them because they are anonymous and discreet. Let us hope that they are not called upon. Summary on Dubai? Amazing, impressive, huge and almost overwhelming. Clean, well-ordered, very affluent, safe and hot. Graffiti Factor, 0%; litter, NIL; skateboarders, NIL; dog muck, NIL; dogs, NIL; dossers, NIL. Not pedestrian friendly, but you can’t have everything. Would we visit again? Maybe, but not sure what you would do after you had finished shopping and sunbathing; build sand castles perhaps? Next stop Muscat, tomorrow.
Although this blog only covers a few days, it is a bit hefty so I will send it off now.
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 