Day -2

"So what effect would these prostaglandins, produced by the uterus, have on the foetus itself?"

A bell rings. I didn't get chance to answer my last question in my oral exam as the time ran out but I didn't care (much), I needed to go home and pack! I had a bag of essentials with camera, laptop, lenses, itinerary and money, which I would carry onto the plane and then an 85 litre rucksack that I would fill with clothes and other, lesser, necessities. I was doing it properly, backpacking around the world, looking like a Sherpa from the back, with my large rucksack, and a pregnant woman from the front, with my camera back strapped to my chest, though I'm sure the tripod was a bit of a giveaway.

I had the day to pack but only one rucksack that could to be filled, to a maximum of 20kg. That said, I didn't want much more than 20kg on my back anyway as I'd have about 8kg on my front. I didn't need all the weight anyway as I ran out of room in my bag. I managed to squeeze in thirteen pairs of socks, twelve pairs of boxers, twelve T-shirts, five vests, three pairs of trousers, seven pairs of shorts and a coat which didn't seem like masses considering the time I was going for. The rest of the space was filled with insect repellent and electronic equipment - one can't leave ones technology behind! I spent the rest of the day and the following morning on more planning, which was worth it as I managed to find some more mountains to climb. Of course, these weren't easy climbs, why do easy ones when I could risk life and limb doing difficult ones? I only seem to do things that involve the possibility of death or serious incapacitation. Oh well, I know what I'm doing and I'm sensible about it, taking care where care is needed. [That last sentence was for you, mother]

Blastoff! Minus the blast, thank goodness

The big day finally arrived. My flatmates were going to come with me to the airport to wish me a fond farewell and good luck and try and persuade me to keep safe and not get arrested, for whatever reason. This, in the end, did not happen due to other commitments and it was just Mia that could make it. It was typical that the weekend I wanted to get to Heathrow there were about 3,000 tube line closures with about 2,500 station closures and so I had to go over ground via the Heathrow express. That may be an exaggeration but the Underground is such a lifeline when it comes to getting around London that when it isn't operating for the weekend it can be more than inconvenient. We managed to get to Isambard Kingdom Brunel's magnificent, even if it is in need of a good clean, Paddington Station where we boarded the waiting train and took a seat on the Heathrow Express after being accosted by a German lady.

At Terminal 3 we found the check in desk and I was just about to join the queue when a lady, dressed in the Arabic uniform of the Emirates airline, rushed over to talk to me.

"Are you for the 2130 sir?" she asked. Shocked that she knew what flight I was on, as I was nearly 5 hours early for my flight, I turned and looked at her colleague in disbelief. "Sir, are you for the 2130 flight to Dubai? Would you like to get the 1700 instead?" Still saying nothing, I must have looked at her with suspicion as I wasn't sure why she wanted me on the earlier flight. She went on to tell me that my flight was very busy and it would be better for me to catch the 1700 instead. I finally remembered how to speak and my acceptance started a flurry of activity. I was checked in immediately while the lady radioed through to the plane to tell them to hold the flight for me. I had less than half an hour to get through security and get to the gate and walk onto the plane - it was just like one sees in films.

"OK, it's confirmed, you're on" she insisted. "Your new flight number is EK030 and it's gate number 3 you need. I've spoken to cabin crew and they're expecting you soon". I was being checked in by Frank, a boring man, on first appearance, who looked like he spent his Friday nights playing chess, or bingo, yet he still had that obligatory 'trolley dolly' flounce as he checked in my bag as business class. I was getting out my documents and, unable to multitask, only half heard what the lady was saying to me.

"So it's gate 30?" I questioned.

"No! Your flight number is EK030, good heavens, don't go to gate 30. It's gate 3 you need, they're waiting for you. 'Client, Mr Battersby, is in transit.' Go, go, go!" she ordered and I left sharply in a buzz of excitement up the stairs to security. I said goodbye to Mia, it wouldn't be long before I saw her again as we would be meeting in Penang for the day as she happened to be going to Malaysia also. Hannah, too, was going to Thailand but our dates did not match so could not meet up.

Removing my laptop from my bag whilst queuing for the x-ray machine, I quickly called my mother to let her know what had happened. I got through without a bleep and whizzed through duty free to rush to Gate 3. There was a huge queue but I lined up and had waited for five minutes before realising I was queuing for gate 11! What a waste of time! I jumped out the line and ran down the corridor looking for that magic number three as I went. It came soon enough but there was no one there so I waited, clutching my boarding card and passport until a lady came to check me in.

On the plane I was seated right at the back of the plane, not surprising considering my relatively late arrival, though, shockingly, I wasn't the last on. An African lady, who had the seat next to me, came thundering down the aisle just as I got comfortable and mumbled something in my direction as she struggled to catch her breath. I got up and moved my things so she could get in. From the smell, I could make a fair assumption that she ran all the way from the train station and she planted herself next to me spilling into my personal space - it was going to be a long flight. An air hostess walked passed and I just deciphered the African lady's blunt request for water. It was brought promptly and she snatched it from the hostess before being reminded of her manners; she then glanced at me in embarrassment. After downing the water in one she slept for most of the flight.

We were slightly late setting off so I used the time to get to grips with the entertainment system, named ICE, which was actually quite intuitive and comprehensive and, in my view, worthy of the numerous awards it had won. It included the usual 3D world map views so one could track the flight progress but it also featured external cameras displaying views from just under the nose cone and the undercarriage. The list of available programmes and films was impressive but I opted for some classic British comedy and fought to keep in the laughter as I watched Fawlty Towers going for an idiotic smile in its place.

After a pleasant meal of lamb medallions with various accompaniments I opened up my laptop and started writing as I sipped my gin and tonic. It didn't last long and it was a good thing too as there was a fair amount of turbulence as we flew over Eastern Europe. It was actually quite rough and I could see the wings almost flapping as they bent with the movement of the plane. The captain apologised for the turbulence and advised it would not last much longer. He also denied the insinuation that there was anything wrong with one of the middle doors of the plane, previously made by one of the passengers. Apparently it was making some hissing noises earlier in the flight but a member of staff had looked at it and no problem was found. I couldn't help but contemplate the possibility of the door not being closed properly leading to a gradual escape of air from the pressurised cabin. The flow would increase, rupturing certain safety mechanisms and ripping off the door completely. Unbelted people would be sucked from the plane, being tossed into a thirty thousand foot freefall over Israel while my laptop would get plucked from my finger tips rendering someone unconscious as it exited through the gaping hole. The Boeing 737-300 would start to plummet; losing altitude due to the change in aerodynamics and eventually the whole plane would break in two, unable to cope with the stresses placed upon it, as it fell from the sky. Fuselage would be ripped from the gash in the hull, stripping the tail end of its protective surface rendering it even less likely to withstand the impact of the impending collision. Would the people in the front half of the plane be more likely to survive? No matter, we'd all certainly die anyway, not that we'd be aware of it. The lack of oxygen and huge pressure change would render the survivors unconscious and ignorant to the trauma of the impact as the collision on foreign soil transformed into a fireball.

"Chicken or vegetable sir?" the steward said with a timely intervention of snacks. All that thinking of death and destruction did make me rather peckish.

"I'll have the Jalfrezi please."

We arrived in Dubai, the commercial capital of the United Arab Emirates and exactly half way between the UK and Malaysia, at 0300, three and a half hours earlier than I had originally planned. I seemed to be the only one that was shocked when the captain said it was 36 degrees Celsius outside but on exiting the plane I could not tell the difference. I shrugged off his claim and made my way to immigration. The new Terminal three is supposed to be the largest building in the world in floor space but didn't seem unlike any other terminal building, however, it was a nice building. Imagine a several storey high Swiss roll which has been sat on by a small dog, cover it in stainless steel and full height arrowhead-shaped windows then fill it with shops, restaurants, supercars and the odd waterfall, not to mention a lot of Arabs, and you have Dubai International Airport's Terminal three.

The airport, it seemed, was not just about welcoming foreign travellers or thanking them for visiting as they leave. It was there to make a statement, to give you an impression of Dubai and to let you know what you should expect once you step out of the terminal building. The highly polished mirror-like floor gave rise to vast hexagonal columns supporting the brilliant white concave ceiling. The bank of lifts which took me down to baggage reclaim had a backdrop of a two storey high waterfall and their supports being covered in panes of mirror. The calm and quiet atmosphere was broken temporarily by the sound of the doors-closing warning noise which didn't quite fit the surroundings sounding more like an air raid siren than the noise designed to gently coax in the passenger who's derriere is still protruding slightly.

As I sauntered up to the conveyer to collect my bag, which had just popped out of the shoot, I stared at the clocks. They were giant Rolex clocks clearly marked with their logo. I couldn't help but wonder whether Rolex clocks were really necessary but I had my bag so went about my business. I wasn't quite sure what my business was as I was due at the hotel at 0800, it was about 0330. I sat in the arrivals lounge of the deserted airport and whipped out my laptop to find a possible route to walk there, even if I did have to carry my heavy bags for several miles. I plotted a mental path and, after checking my emails, I set off. The automatic doors opened and the 36 degrees hit me, stopping me in my tracks. I could almost feel the fine beads of sweat forming as I stood. I was surprised at just how humid it was as I was expecting a dry heat but I carried on regardless until, after half an hour of searching, I could not find a pedestrian way out of the airport so I relented and opted for a taxi.

The taxi was smart and comfortable with a large LCD display at the front telling me everything I needed to know. I instructed the driver to take me to a local supermarket, near my hotel, as advised by the lady with whom I had corresponded with. It was a short but hot walk to the hotel and I wasn't sure how welcome I would be, given the time. I did email her in the airport but thought she would be unlikely to get it. I tapped at the gate then rang the bell but I only had to wait a few moments before I was invited in. Walking through the front door I realised that I hadn't booked a hotel. Villa47, the place I was staying, was not some trendy name dreamt up at the table of a large hospitality corporation but instead was just a simple and accurate description. It was a villa, with four rooms, and it was number 47 on that road. The lady I had been emailing lived in the villa too, I was in her home! I didn't know what to do; I felt a little embarrassed to be walking into her house at such an early hour expecting to stay.

The Villa was full of heavy mahogany furniture and oversized sofas which almost swallowed me whole when I sat upon the soft beige cloth. I rested my bags on the floor and was just putting my itinerary away when a rather obese but very friendly pug came waddling up to me wagging its almost nonexistent tail. I gave the excited dog a stroke then made a mental note to wash my hands at my first opportunity as I didn't want to them to smell like the dog did. I continued sorting my things in the lounge as my room was still being prepared. The dog sat proudly next to me as if given instruction by his owner, Ancy, to guard me - he was in charge while she was gone. He took the role seriously and didn't move until Ancy came to show me to my room.

Up the tiled corner staircase was a small library, computer and the bedrooms. I didn't really see the other rooms but mine must have been the biggest. It was massive, being the whole width of the house, and came with an aptly sized bed, balcony, plasma TV and bathroom to match. Not only that, it was tastefully decorated too. As I went to inspect the balcony I heard a cockerel crowing which I thought was curious in the middle of a residential area but then I am hardly one to talk. I spotted a pair of apple green love birds with their flushed pink cheeks sat chattering in one of the trees but they flew further afield as I took a seat. Ancy had kindly offered me breakfast, when I was ready for it, so I had an hour's sleep (by accident) and then a shower ready for a day exploring Dubai city.

Downstairs, I found a table all ready for me and my breakfast. There was yoghurt, a bowl of melon, tea, three types of cereal and a set of crockery ready for the main Indian breakfast. I'd previously expressed to Ancy that I was very much looking forward to her Indian cooking and she was surprised but pleased that I wanted it. She explained that it is very rare she gets people that want an Indian breakfast. I dispensed with the, far too western, cereal - I was in the Middle East! Out came a large earthenware bowl of bright, lemon yellow potato curry and some crisp, hot puri (fried wheat flatbread). It wasn't curry in the more traditional sense, with intense flavours and a heavy, rich sauce, instead it was light and very aromatic, almost refreshing. I wolfed it down quickly and, being my usual annoyingly and unnecessarily polite self, I declined a second helping. I still need to put into practise some aspects of Eastern etiquette. In many eastern cultures it is a compliment and a positive thing to eat, and enjoy, what is being made for you over two or more servings, so the polite thing to do would be to eat more rather than less. Being the bottomless pit I am I really shouldn't struggle with that concept.

I collected my things and jumped into the taxi that was waiting for me outside, thanks to Ancy's efficiency. "To the museum please!"

I had planned to walk the two or so miles into the centre but I hadn't bargained on the heat or the lack of pedestrian-friendly access. I dipped myself in sun cream and paid the driver then exited the vehicle. I only had two full days in which to explore Dubai and as such had a carefully organised programme of events that I must keep to in order to see all that I wanted to. After about three minutes into the plan it had already gone out of the window.

I was approached by smartly dressed lady who asked me what my plans were before trying to sell me her goods. I am wise to such salespeople and a polite "no thank you" and a sure walk away normally does the trick but one has to be careful of missing genuine opportunities, this was one of those times. She was trying to sell me a bus ticket for a 'hop on, hop off' bus tour. In fact, it was the very same company which operates the service in London. The routes were perfect, they covered all I wanted to see, and I was sold. The bus eradicated the need for me to try and negotiate the fairly poor and lacking public transportation options available. The fully automated light rail system which I had hoped would be operational by my arrival was very much still in the stages of construction.

The Museum, known as such owing to the distinct lack of museums in Dubai, was my first stop, using the ticket I got free as part of the bus tour. The museum, an old fort, was small but had an extensive underground, and air conditioned, network of corridors and rooms which provided an almost lifelike and interesting representation of how Dubai used to be. From the streets and markets to the desert itself, the walk culminated with me being regurgitated from a squat sandstone tower from which the nation's flag proudly flew. I was just out in time for the next bus so I hopped aboard and plugged in my earphones to listen to the commentary as we drove through the bustling streets.

Having thrown my schedule away, I decided to partake in the, again free, river cruise on a traditional dhow. The dhows were, and still are, used for the transport of goods for both domestic and international trading with some travelling as far as Africa and India, carrying an array of goods from food to freezers to vehicles. These unpainted but shapely, wooden dhows were moored several deep against the wall of the river while mammoth sized bags, sacks, boxes and crates were loaded, by hand, onto the boats. Arabic men dressed in their long, billowing, white clothes and hats pushed heavily laden carts to the boats ready for loading. I didn't want to think how far they had come. If I hadn't been sat in an air conditioned bus on a tarmac road, with a smattering of skyscrapers in the distance to spoil the view, I might have been fooled into thinking I was in medieval times, half expecting the Knights of the Round Table to turn up on some far flung crusade trying to claim the settlement for King and country.

I, and a few others from the bus, hopped onto the deck of the impressive vessel and we set sail. We were advised to sit upstairs though I didn't even realise it had another level as it wasn't a massive boat. Ignorant, I climbed the steep, dark-wood steps to find a lounging area, part covered with a small roof for shade. The whole deck was fitted with large flat taffeta cushions, embroidered with gold thread and arranged into seating areas. Thick, cylindrical cushions allowed one to sit as if on a chair but cross-legged. As there was plenty of space, I spread out, basking in the midday sun as the breeze from the waters below kept me cool. This was just how I imagined the Middle East to be! Hot, traditional and sat on the floor with some good food in my stomach, I loved Dubai already. The cruise came with a short and interesting talk and traditional music, which was actually rather good. As we floated gently along the emerald waters, not a bit like the Thames, I watched the locals go about their daily lives, this wasn't the tourist filled, high-rise city I thought it would be... yet!

On the bus, we'd passed the gold souk which "couldn't be missed". A souk is a traditional place where locals go to buy and trade, haggling all the while, with the various shops and stalls. It was well past lunchtime and, whilst I wasn't especially hungry, I hadn't had much to drink and I'd been out in the sun all day, so far, and was feeling a little off but thought I should get to the gold souk then find somewhere to get a drink. With bustling metropolis all around, it was easier to forget that I was in the desert and the temperature was a scorching 47 degrees, a good 10 more than I'd ever experienced before and I wasn't used to it. I wasn't aware of the non-specific but debilitating effect it would have on me and after trudging for a couple of kilometres without an air conditioned shopping centre I could use for refuge I felt absolutely dreadful but I couldn't have told you what, specifically, was wrong. I was in the gold souk and therefore all the shops sold gold and jewellery, not drinks and food. I couldn't even find a shop big enough for me to hide in for a few minutes so I continued. I'd just made it through the other side of the gold souk, after maybe another half kilometre, and I was almost pulled into a cafe, that I hadn't even noticed was there, by an Arabic employee. His English wasn't brilliant but whipped out a trestle table and stool from in between some boxes of watermelons and pineapples and sat me down, shoved a menu in front of my face that was open on a page of drinks and said "choose!"

I opted for a bottle of water and a kiwi smoothie which his colleague behind a barrier of real, exotic fruit made for me while I waited. In an effort to look like I wasn't suffering, I got out my bus map to plot where I was to go next and as I did so four large kiwis disappeared from around me right ear. The waiter brought my drinks and then disappeared to serve the lady that was sitting outside. By the time he got back the smoothie had gone and so had half a litre of water. On his return he looked shocked and pointed at the empty glass then laughed in amusement. I must have looked quite a state. After about half an hour, I was feeling infinitely better and decided I should make a move before staying for an embarrassingly long time without a buying another drink. Not that I really wanted to move just yet. I thought that I could use the air conditioned bus to further my recovery and walked a short distance to the bus stop.

Leaving the old town, we hit the big city, modern Dubai, and a tangled mess of concrete highways and modern skyscrapers, fashionable shopping malls and a glut of five star hotels. Now with my sensible head on, I thought it best to stay out of the sun so I got off the bus at Dubai Centre, one of the large shopping malls, where I planned to get some food and some ice cream. The mall wasn't quite as flashy as I was expecting and was just another shopping centre to me. The food court was nice, housing a range of cuisine from all over the world. The ice cream I had after the meal was the memorable part though. I'd chosen a special brownie dessert which comprised mainly of triple chocolate ice cream, scraped out of the display area with a large metal paddle and then placed on a long piece of frozen black granite which was, in parts, covered in frost. The ice cream was spread out and a piece of chocolate fudge brownie was added, chocolate chips were sprinkled on top and then the whole thing was smothered in chocolate sauce, which was all then worked together with two paddles. Finally, the concoction was scooped into a chocolate covered waffle cone that had been shaped into a cup. It was delicious.

Back at the bus stop I decided to do a complete tour of the beach route which went passed the sea and back through the business district. Dubai, being on the coast, has spread out from its original location along the creek, down the waterfront towards Abu Dhabi. It is down this stretch where the beaches and manmade islands are located as well as the big hotels like the Burj Al Arab [the one that looks like a ships sail] and the Atlantis, amongst many others. It is around here where the majority of development is taking place with skyscrapers being thrown up in every available square foot. As the centre piece of all this development is the Burj Dubai, the world's tallest manmade structre, which has already broken the record even though it is still under construction. I could just see this building through the haze from the villa and thought it looked like something from JRR Tolkien's Mordor. It's essentially a giant thin cone culminating in a giant spike but as we drove close up to it my opinion changed. It looked as if it's made from a few, thin interlocking towers with a main point joining everything in the middle. When it's finished later this year, with all its stainless steel cladding, I think it will be quite attractive - the modern sculpture it was designed to be. Heavenly pinnacle or synthetic eyesore, the architecture being squeezed into the desired form has to be acknowledged. The Freedom Tower in New York has been designed by the same people. Around the Burj Dubai is, again, a shopping mall and public open areas with various other office and hotel towers all in construction.

I shouldn't have been surprised when, on stopping at the Burj Dubai Mall, the bus emptied. It seems most of the other tourists were more interested in what shops Dubai had to offer. This mall was supposed to be the one for designer clothes featuring many well known designer labels that I'd never heard of and/or couldn't pronounce. We only stopped briefly before moving onto the next 'amazing' mall.

The theme thus far is, if you like shopping then Dubai may just be your cup of tea. I couldn't be less interested on the shopping front and avoided them like the plague. The malls and shops were all so American, so overdone, so oversized, so in your face shouting 'look at me, NOW!' I imagined this must be what Florida is like with the palm trees, the mansions, the advertising, they should just have labels saying 'I have too much money' instead. And if something could be themed then it was. For example, there was a shopping mall in the shape of a pyramid, all Egyptian themed with pharaohs, mummies and sphinxes everywhere but it didn't look like the high class shopping venue it was trying to be, it looked more like a theme park. I genuinely looked for some rollercoaster track coming out of one of the sides of the pyramid. Then there was one themed like London's Tower Bridge (of all things) and various Greek and Roman outlets. I remember hearing 'Little London' at some point. There was much more but for me the culmination of all the hideously themed and fake shops and hotels had to be the Atlantis. An enormous grotesque pink five star hotel aptly placed on a series of manmade islands which from the air looks like a palm. A very close copy of the original Atlantis hotel in the Bahamas, it is themed on the iconic lost city of Atlantis. As we drove along the approach to it I couldn't see anything else but Sleeping Beauty's Castle in Disneyland. It was all the same to me, an artificial block that symbolises everything fake and nasty about theme parks.

We unfortunately stopped to allow guests on. An overriding theme, and perhaps a philosophy for Dubai, was, again, reiterated in the commentary on the bus. Everything was about being the biggest, most expensive, first, or otherwise remarkable for some reason, in the world. Everything was compared to other countries and how Dubai is beating whatever is in question. The Atlantis for example, had, I think, the world's largest aquarium that one could take a water ride through, filled with some of the worlds most rare and exotic fish "taken from Dubai's own cost line". That, to me, says a lot. They're willing to boast about the fact that they have gone out and caught thousands of fish, including sharks and dolphins [yes! Dolphins!], to put them behind glass in a hotel, it's disgusting. It's true to say I really don't know the facts and figures behind all of this and it may all be completely ethical and above board but that isn't the point, that isn't how the story is told.

As we drove passed the golf course, it was proudly stated that Dubai has "one of highest water consumptions in the world." Dubai, being in the desert, cannot support a nice lawn, for instance, so uses [wastes] billions of gallons of water, daily, to keep the city, and its golf courses, nice and green. The water, though, has to be taken from wells deep in the ground or made in desalination plants, a highly energy dependent process, and that's all before you factor in the drinking water. This has repercussions on the global climate as does the massive amount of building work. The building work, another ethical issue, is being performed by migrant Indian and other Asian workers, all male, that have been flown in to support the rapid growth of Dubai. They're being paid a pittance and so gives rise to what is essentially a slave trade. This is apparently justified by the fact that the same happens in India itself, an excuse not a reason thinks I.

The world's largest IKEA, Marks and Spencer, building, manmade harbour (which will be the size of Hong Kong), theme park (called Dubai Land and will be four times the size of Disney World)... the list was endless - a list I grew very tired of listening to. Those are just a few that I could remember but the number of records that were claimed to have been broken was immense. Even the rulers of Dubai and the UAE were highly praised, continuously. Dubai, in their own eyes, can and has done no wrong (not that I'm part of a nation that can really criticise on such matters); it is the most amazing place in the world, a place everyone should visit at least once in their lifetime. I just got the impression that everyone was living on cloud 9, in a fantasy land of an idyllic nature where everything is solved with money and manpower. If it can be bought then it can be done. I knew, though, that it was far from the case as I had already experienced what I thought to be true Dubai with real Arabic men and women still going about their daily lives in the only ways that were possible ten or twenty years ago.

Dubai is certainly a city of contrasts. It's a city with some of the best hotels and shopping in the world and yet just half an hour up the coast there are men pushing wooden carts with two wheels from their crumbling shops to boats that haven't long since had an engine. Even rowing boats are still used to cross the river. I wouldn't like to know the percentage of foreigners that go to Dubai and never see that side.

I returned to the villa after a tiring but thoroughly worthwhile day. I thought a lot about Dubai as I laid in bed that night listening to the air conditioning. There's a lot more to Dubai than its glitzy facade and tomorrow I was to fully immerse myself in it.