Woods are lovely...

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

Actually, Atul's witty comments on his facebook www.facebook.com/atulsondhi using Robert Frost's 'woods are lovely ...' transported me back to my school days wherein I was exposed to Robert Frost.

If my memory serves me right, it was the dhoti-clad, moustacheless and clean-shaven Assistant Headmaster K Ramasubramaniam (KRS as he used to be called) in his mid-30s who used to teach English in his gruff voice.

Robert Frost, incidentally, was India's first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru's favourite poem.

Though never exposed to any snow-filled forests in the late 1960s and early 1970s while living in Chennai (then called Madras, the southernmost city of India), I had chance to live through such places in 1990s - on visits to Simla, Kulu, Manali with family.

It was a painful experience bearing that numbing icy feeling all through your body.

I am digging my digital photo ghazana to feret out those Manali experiences.

Thanks Atul for walking me down the memory lane.

What's life without memories.

Julie - the 1995 Classic!

For several months, I have been toying with the idea of syncing my ipod from my laptop. Every now and then, the laptop has to undergo 'formating' and in the process the itune library on it automatically gets wiped out. Of late, have become lazy and stopped reloading from my 80 GB Seagate removable hard disc.

Today, I have made up my mind to sync, come what may. The whole exercise took close to an hour. Worth it, I tell you.

Soon, I checked out songs under the 'composers' category and found Rakesh Roshan link. Clicked and bingo... there was just one song from Julie - the 1975 classic. Naturally, I played once. Floored indeed. Julie was orignially made in Malayalam under the title, "Chattakari" (Anglo-Indians in the south are referred like that becoz even married women wear skirts. Traditional hindu women - post-puberty don't those days! I did not se the Malayalam version, but saw the Hindi version. The versatile Lakshmi in the title role with Vikram (never seen him subsequently in any worthwhile movie) as her lover boy. And Sridevi - yet to make a mark as heroine material those days - as Lakshmi's younger sister. K S Sethumadhavan's movie it was.

The music was phenomenal. Rajesh Roshan composed it. Remarkable rhythm. Hummable even today.

I was in the final year of Economics degree when it was released in Chennai. Was it Little Anand where I saw it? Can't recollect. The music was a rage. Dil Kya Kare, sung by Kishoreda, was a big hit. We don't get to hear those type of songs these days. Roshan is an excellent composer. Don't know why he does not compose for others outside his family productions (Hrithik Roshan's uncle he is).

I am a great fan of him. It was the first time, Lakshmi sported skirt in a movie!

Believe it or not, I looped the song and must have heard 20 times this afternoon.

Out of curiosity, googled 'Julie" and landed with Neha Dhupia's 2005 movie with the same name. Sexy poster, no doubt. Check out on google/yahoo images. Then rephrased 'Julie Lakshmi Vikram' and then got the billboard that you see in this blog.

Though other songs were equally good, am unable to recollect at this moment.

Good Morning,Muscat!-2

Re-entering Muscat after a gap of a little over 100 days is a bit like home coming. The aircraft touches and taxis down the tarmac to halt near the arrival lounge. A Corbus picks you up for the short ride where one enters the quiet visa/immigration enclosure. Not like Dubai where there are over 50 odd counters on a spacious hall spread over precious real estate. Nor even like Bahrain which again is larger than Muscat, but comparatively smaller than Dubai. That’s the ‘big difference’ in terms of arrival lounge area!

Following the swine flu threat, there are non-invasive electronic spotters to check body temperature in many airports. Muscat is no exception. One walks up to the pre-booked visa counter to join the sparse crowd. A young Omani woman officer deftly handles the issuance before one proceeds to the immigration counter that is properly regulated by Omani men. Here again, the crowd is thin because there is just one flight landed with less than 50 passengers from Bahrain – which includes me as well.

In no time, one thanks the officials and exit. Usually, this is the time I switch on my mobile with Omani GSM card and invariably receive a call or notice a missed call from Yusuf, who used to pick me up from airport over the past 4 years almost every month. This time around, that exercise is not executed because I no longer work for the same outfit and secondly I had exited Oman three months ago and did not retain any Omani mobile number. Another routine is to pick up few goodies at the duty free shop. I did not this time because I have no Omani currency. For the first time over the past four years, I silently reach the baggage claim area without entering the Duty Free Shop. I regret later, for a variety of reasons!

After collecting my baggage and getting through x-ray scanner, I come in the arrival lounge where receivers anxiously hang around the foyer. Again sparsely crowded. I look around for a British female whom I never met, but told to look out for. Emily Mathews is the name and she is my colleague in the new outfit where I will join this time. I notice a foreigner in pink apparel and enquiries, “are you Emily?” and receive a negative response. Suddenly notice another familiar face and a Brit girl. We wave at each other. “Meet Emily,” he says. Well, we met by now.

A sleek four wheeler carts me into Muscat’s Wednesday evening traffic. The weather is fine. No sign of any unbearable heat associated with August. Familiar sites glide past on both sides: Zubair showrooms, the Grand Mosque, Centre Point etc. Visit the office in Al Khuwair and then move to the guest house in the same area.

Penthouse bed & breakfast arrangement. Dump my stuff and step into the balcony. The view is panoramic. Mountains on one side and sea on the other. It’s night and nothing is clearly visible except lights all around and traffic 10 stories below. Eyelids threaten to shut down due to physical exhaustion. I see off my hosts-turned-guests and crash out with a promise to the Filipino housekeeper Leena that I would prefer a hot glass of milk at 9 p.m. I look at the watch showing 7.43 p.m. Close to 75 minutes nap bargained for. Let me crash quickly. I switch off lights and hit the bed.

Don’t know what happened. Perhaps the central air conditioner is extra cool. I woke up and got out of bed. Picked up the mobile to check out time. The digital clock reads: 02.17 a.m. What happened to my 9 p.m. milk? Not served perhaps. Or Leena could not reach out at the appointed hour. I step into the balcony with my Sony handycam and begin clicking pictures. The first shot was that of Muscat Municipal Corporation garbage van dumping the contents of roadside stationary garbage boxes into its maw. After a few more shots, re-enter my room. Should I step out for a morning walk, I debate, but give up quickly. Switch off light and hit the bed again to get into the clutches of Dame Sleep. Ready to snooze again. Bye.

Good Morning, Muscat!-1

Honestly I had no intention to reach Muscat via Bahrain. Tell me, why should when one has the option to fly direct Delhi-Muscat? Nonethless, when family friend-cum-travel agent Joginder suggested I fly Gulf Air, my immediate reaction was: what, have they reopened the Delhi-Muscat direct route again? Because they use to fly that way until two years ago – that is before the Sultanate of Oman pulled out of Gulf Air, a big time joint venture in the middle east involving UAE, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Oman and Bahrain. Oman was the last to delink from Gulf Air. And I was a frequent flier on that route those days. Nostalgic, no doubt.

Joginder’s ‘no’ disappointed me a bit. I had to transit at Bahrain for a quick connecting flight to Muscat, a 100 minute hop. Instead of less than three direct Delhi-Muscat passage, I opted for a longer journey and chance to touch Bahrain after three years and explore Gulf Air hospitality! Plus the added advantage of paying approximately RO 10 less than if I opt for direct Oman Air flight to Muscat.

But I did not anticipate what rolled out ultimately. As per original schedule, GF 131 Delhi-Bahrain aircraft arrived late by an hour and hence departure was delayed by that amount of time. By the time, it landed at Bahrain airport, expectedly the connecting flight had departed already. What next? I had to cool my heels at the half-empty airport terminal for five hours for the next Muscat flight. The fat lady near the Transfer counter- working for Gulf Air – was impolite to the core. Several passengers missed their connecting flight to various destinations. One Arabic lady had missed her connecting flight to Athens. Wearing traditional abaya and hijab, she reprimanded the Gulf Air bully in flawless English. “Why should we passengers suffer because of Gulf Air’s inefficiency?” she demanded to know. Answers were none.

I asked for a complaint book and was handed over a Customer Feedback form. Meanwhile, she gave me a boarding pass for 3 p.m. Gulf Air flight (GF 550) to Muscat. I looked at the watch. It read: 9.45 a.m. Ohmigod! Five hours to kill. “What am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Go and get yourself a free lunch at the four floor restaurant,” the Gulf Air lady responded gruffly. “What lunch? I want to reach Muscat a.s.a.p.” Can’t help was the smileless response. I expected a smiling and conciliatory tone. Not that ‘you-are-my-enemy’ countenance and bad behaviour. So much for Customer Service in Bahrain – the home base of Gulf Air.

Wait. This is not the end. I wrote my complaint and wanted to meet the Gulf Air officials in the airport. There was none expect the ‘gruff’ lady and another bespectacled middle aged gentleman – he was silent, but attending to other irate passengers. If I want to meet someone in Gulf Air, I need to exit the airport. Look, the airlines had committed a mistake and I am being penalized by unfriendly Gulf Air staff.

How to kill time? I loitered in the airport departure lobby – sparsely littered with Haj pilgrimages awaiting their Saudi connecting flight. Duty Free Shops were almost empty. Even McD was. Mind you, there is never any shortage of flights. Many were taking off at regular intervals. It is obvious, there is less traffic, courtesy recession. Bought a novel by a Lebanese author translated into English, picked up a few magazines at the bookstall, a packet of assorted lozenses and a Sprite can.

Scouting for a quiet corner to engage myself in reading turned out to be an easy affair, because airport was half empty. In the past trips, I had invariably failed. This time, I was lucky. Also procured a satchel of roasted and salted groundnuts. They were large in size compared to the Indian ones. Thankfully, the book was engrossing from the very first sentence. After a while, I felt a chillness. It is August. Peak summer. Of course, the central air-conditioner is on. If there is crowd, it absorbs the chillness. But the sparsely populated airport terminal added to my discomfort. Can’t do a thing. So walked from one end to another to keep warm.

Around 1 p.m., felt pangs of hunger. How about the promised free lunch at Gulf Air’s expense? First I need to find the restaurant that would provide free eat. I walked up to one of the nearby Bahrain Airport Services staff who politely directed me to the ‘other end’. I ambled across and found a Gulf Air First/Business Class Lounge signage. I escalatored to the higher plane where I was greeted by another fat Gulf Air lady behind a counter. Rather I greeted her. She was equally glum like her female counterpart near the Transfer Desk Gulf Air counter. I enquired about my lunch after showing her boarding pass with some code enscribed indicating ‘free lunch’. “This is First/Business Class Lounge. Not a free lunch counter,” she responded. When asked for directions to the correct location of ‘free lunch”, she stood up to tell me, ‘ask the information counter’ somewhere in the down lobby and walked away. “Why you Gulf Air staffers are so rude?” I asked her before she left. She just ignored me.

After climbing down to the departure lobby, I approached the information counter. One of the three attending the counter, patiently listened to my query and then called out another Indian sub-staff and asked him to show me the directions. In the next two minutes I was sitting inside the Skybar restaurant after properly guided by the non-Gulf Air staffers. Thank you, guys! Poor customer service is the most unpardonable sin in the service sector. Gulf Air is still in the process of learning. Buck up, quickly. Customers are merciless. One bad experience, they will never ever come to do business with shoddy service provider.

I am not nitpicking. I had a pleasant experience at the Delhi Gulf Air counter. I had checked in and was walking towards immigration. A lady stopped me mid way and said, “Sir, we wish to upgrade you to Business Class”. I did not ask why because this is not my first experience of such upgrades. Instead of wasting a perishable empty passenger seat in Business Class, why not gain some goodwill from some frequent flier in that sector is the logic. I thanked and accepted the Business Class Boarding Pass. Not all Gulf Air employees are insensitive. The service was good on the Delhi-Bahrain sector. So was the food. Now I am waiting for some response to my complaint wherein I had given my Indian phone number and email id at the Gulf Air counter in Bahrain.

Good Morning, Dubai!-7

It was an eventful weekend. First, I am not used to spending two days away from office. Last time I had the luxury of two-day weekend was two years ago in Bahrain. That time, I had a colleague – Vinod Verma – for company. We used to freak out over the weekend: eat, watch cricket match on tv, booze and party. This time around, I am alone. Habits die hard and I could not kick the practice of waking up early. To that extent, I had more wakeful hours to spend or kill.

Luckily, I had Ali – my neighbour from Pakistan whom you can read about in another separate blog (Good Morning, Dubai!-6) – for early morning company. Then, religiously took up Curveball, the book on how George W Bush mounted the invasion of Iraq purely on the basis of one Iraqi fugitive who had sought asylum in Germany. An interesting book of 360 odd pages. Completed over the weekend, though bought in Muscat a month ago.

The last few pages wherein the US President calls Kay – a think tank wonk – for lunch at White House to know what had gone wrong in his assessment of situation is revealing. It is an apt lesson for leaders how not to get carried by subordinates – particularly those who want to tell the boss what he would like to hear. Reminded of several of my colleagues over the past who screwed up lives just to save their asses.

***
After two hours afternoon nap, decided to venture out on my own. No escorts. Why not try the Dubai Bus? Indeed, why not? It was 6 p.m. and stepped out and reached the nearest bus shelter. Beautiful structure. Reminded me of dugouts set up at IPL venues. Except they are glass-fronted closed set ups with airconditioning. Checked the bus time listing and decided to go to Century Mall/Mamzar. So chose route no.C14.

Though the scheduled arrival was 6.50 p.m, it came 25 minutes late. Stepped in and bought a 2 Dirhams ticket. Thought it would be a short drive for maybe 20-30 minutes. The beautiful bus was meandering through crowded Satwa road, Karama, British Council, Dubai Courts. I was losing patience. When enquired, my fellow passenger said it would take a long time. Maybe 90 minutes.

Ninety minutes inside even an airconditioned bus? No way. Near clock tower – a prominent spot, but can’t figure out where it is located – I simply got out, walked into a nearby Pakistani restaurant (You can't escape running into Pakistani or Filipino in Dubai!) and asked him to guide me back to Jumeira Post Office where I live. He asked me to cross over and take the same C 14 route bus.

Picking up a Diet Pepsi can, I climbed over the overbridge and waited for the bus. For 30 minutes, no sign of any C 14. My watch showed 9.30 p.m. I am in an alien land and have no clue about the topography. No taxi was stopping though I was waving frantically. An unmetered taxi guy approached and asked for 4o Dirhams for the trip back to home. I felt it too was too much. I offered Dh 20.

Before he could react, I spotted an approaching C 14 and entered. But I was asked to step out because I was carrying a Pepsi can. I did not want to throw it out. Again I have to wait for another 20 minutes before the next C 14 came. Paid 2 Dirham and found the Pakistani bearded driver very talkative. Sat in the first row– just a metre away from the front glass panel to enjoy the driver-seat view of the road in front.

After how long I don’t know, the bus halted and everyone trooped out. I also stepped out. But, I had no idea where I was standing. Suddenly found the Pak driver also was missing. One Indian on the road asked me to take C 14 to go to Jumeira Post office. I waited for 10 minutes before I could board another C 14. I told the driver to alert me when Jumeira Post office is reached.

After two halts, he told me to get out which I did and could not locate the Post Office – a landmark I had seen over the past week. It was 11.30 p.m. and I was stranded on the road. Moreover I was hungry. I began walking back towards where I boarded the bus. Then, I decided to take a cab and luckily I found an approaching cab.

Got in and told him to go to Jumeria Post Office. “Are you sure, you want to go Jumeira Post Office?” the old Paksitani driver asked. I said firmly, “yes’. He switched on the meter. “Fasten your belt, sir,” said he. After two minutes, he halted and said, “Sir, here’s Jumeria Post Office.” I did not know whether to cry or laugh.

I paid him 10 dirhams – the minimum fare and got out. The driver called me back and spoke in Hindi. Where in Jumeira Post Office? I showed him the street in front of Post Office. He asked me to climb the cab again and he dropped me in front of my house! “Allah has said that I had to take 10 Dirhams from you this night for such a short distance! I would not have taken this money from you had this been my private taxi. It is metered and I had to give account of this trip. Kindly excuse me, sir!” He stepped out and hugged me.

I entered home and wept loudly. It was close to midnight. Had my oatmeal dinner and hit the sack. The next morning, I stood before the Jumeria Post Office and kicked the ground several times out of frustration. “Swine,” I said in disgust. No, I was not cursing the drivers of the previous night. But my destiny!

Good Morning, Dubai!-6

The first weekend (Fri-Sat) in Dubai. Got up at 6 a.m., skipped usual morning walk becoz I had gone on a long walk last nite. Sort of compensating well in advance in the likelihood of myself waking up late Friday morning. It did happen that way only. Before I could gear up for my morning cuppa, heard a knock on my door and found Mr Ali – my Pakistani mechanical engineer neighbour-cum-houseowner – working in the Ministry of Defence – in his baseball cap requesting me to join him for green tea. Five feet, six inches perhaps. Brown complexion. Living alone while family is in London, claims the UK passport holding Lahorean.

While brushing my teeth, had seen him performing namaaz on the lawns, but did not entertain the thought of being invited for morning tea. He asks me not to wear footwear, but walk on the soft lawns bare-foot. “Good for your feet,” opines the moustache-less, but machoistic middle aged Ali. The grass is soft and velvety and a bit wet from early morning dew. With two cups of piping hot tea and a plateful of badam soaked in water he approaches me at the table set up in one corner. The sun has arisen, but it would take a couple of hours before it is above our head.

After checking out my comfort level with Hindi, he breaks into Pakstani Urdu/Hindi. I like it. It’s different. “Namaaz ek barkaat,” he says. Appears like am watching some Balraj Sahni classics. Honestly, I could not connect with a few words and phrases. But the essence, yes. He tells me a few tales. Here’s a sample: Someone is walking on the hill path and hears a voice. “Son, be careful. Keep an eye on the path,” it says. The walker asks: “Why are you telling me this?” He gets a reply: “Son, whenever you left home, your mother used to put her hands and pray requesting me to protect you. Today, son, she’s no more. That’s why, am telling you to be watchful.” I don’t know why he chose to tell me this story. My eyes well up. Reminded of my mother who had passed way 13 years ago. May her soul rest in peace.

Suddenly a dozen grey-and-white colour doves land on the tree tops within his compound. “What you call them – Parinda? Kabootar?” he asks. Without waiting for a response, he goes ahead to narrate how he is bonding with them for years – 20 odd years at least – in the same compound. Allah asked me to feed them and I’m doing it, he informs me. The BMW I mentioned about a few days ago standing outside my residence belongs to Ali, now I understand. There are five more cars both inside and outside the compound. Some belong to him and others to some of his friends who are out of Dubai for a few years.

Another gem, he spills: It is better to live next to an empty house than a bad neighbour. By the way, he is upset that I am not introduced to him properly. He has to collar me up two days ago. I felt he was a bit rude and tried to generalize all Paksitanis are like that. That morning, I was in my shorts and a T-shirt. He was lecturing to me on etiquette while being seated inside his BMW. I apologized to him for not having met him soon after occupying the outhouse in his compound.

I never felt the need becoz the outhouse was sublet to me that too temporarily for a few weeks. In the subsequent days, he had seen me being picked up and dropped back by office colleagues and yes I was dressed formally – suit, jacket, tie etc and carrying a laptop. I had always seen him going to office in army camouflage apparel. The previous evening, he came visiting as soon I returned from work. I saw him reading one of my business cards lying on the desk. That’s when, in hindsight, I felt his attitude towards me changed for the better. “You did not tell me that you’re a journalist,” he said. Where did he give a chance? He prejudged me to be a clerk or middle level executive in some private sector outfit. Suddenly, I had become ‘Sir’ to him.

“You don’t eat chicken, mutton, beef, etc?” he asks. I politely nod. He picks up his entire non-vegetarian items mentioned above stuffed in my – or rather his – refrigerator kept in the kitchen. I was unsure to whom it belonged and hence left them untouched. He holds forth a long session on muslims’ penchant for mutton and european’s obsession with beef. “They (Europeans) feed mutton to their dogs whereas for muslims it is the staple diet,” he blurts out. He concurs that everybody has their own logic or rationale for following a particular food regimen.

Pointing to a few trees full of drumstick in his compound, Ali tells me that he permits Keralites to pluck them for their cooking. “They like it.” I also like it. For south Indians – particularly from Tamil Nadu – drum stick is equivalent to ‘viagra’. Newly wed couples are fed in copious quantities! Another tree’s flowers are favourite with Filipinos whom again are shown Ali’s benevolence. A kind soul, he is.

He invites me to watch Zee TV in his drawing room. I politely decline, shook hands with him and exit my abode to kill the first day of the long weekend in Dubai – alone. When I return from Emarat petrol filing station – hardly 200 metres away from home – I pick up Friday magazine supplement that comes with Gulf News. One of the columnists recommend – yawn and relax. I simply oblige her.

Good Morning, Dubai!-5

41-year old Mohammed Jameel could not resist laughing out loud. The Pakistani cab driver categorically maintains the business in Dubai is low. “Don’t believe if anyone says there is no impact of slowdown,” he asserts. I enquire the rationale behind his laughing. “I heard you saying your caller a few moments ago that life is slow, but the man or woman on the other end was arguing with you,” he explains. Well, that was a friend from Muscat claiming that he could not believe things would have gone bad between January when he had visited Dubai and now. Jameel, father of six children back in Peshawar, informs that until December last, people used to wait for two hours to get one of the 10,000 cabs plying on Dubai roads. Today, cab wallahs scout for passengers. “I saw you a few minutes from the other side of the road and praying that you don’t get a taxi till I take a U turn and reach you. Insha Allah, you did not get one till I picked you up!” says the yellow-tie wearing Pakistani cab driver plying on Dubai roads for the past two years. After December, for the first time, he had sent a decent money back home after putting together the past two months income. Tough times, indeed.

***
I could not resist asking him why six children? “What can I do? I was married when I was 16 years. I began to raise family when I was a child. Before I could realize, I had six children before I turned 25,” says Jameel with a tinge of embarrassment. Today, he assures me that he would not repeat the same mistake. Now, too late! His children – 4 boys and two girls – are in college and school and a major chunk of his income sent home goes towards their educational expenses. He is confident that his investment in children’s education is worth. His wife is also undergoing training in computers and he hopes she would land up with some job soon back home. Does he not miss his wife and children? “It is my fate that I have to live away from them. Earlier I used to cry. Today, I got used to it. Come Ramadaan, I will be completing two years in Dubai. But will I able to go home?” he wonders. Why? His contract with the cab company that has a fleet of over 2000 does not give him annual or bi-annual free home ticket and hence he has to shell out. Can he afford? Is what worries him.

***
May Sad is peppy Lebanese pretty young thing. She is hosting the workshop/seminar that is organized by my friend Abdul on health insurance in the Gulf region. She has done a lot of live shows in the region for a variety of companies. “You’re witty,” she quips as she goes through the script for her Master of Ceremonies role. Wherever she is uncomfortable with a word or phrase, she quietly suggests a change and that is done. Her eyes lit up when she spots a Lebanese speaker’s name. To lighten up the proceedings on Day one, she asks the panel “what is the latest on the Lebanon?”, knowing fully well the panel is seriously discussing the impact of global meltdown on health insurance in the Gulf. Some names of speakers are tongue-twisters for her as well. She crosschecks with the speakers quietly behind the doors and writes them in Arabic (her mother tongue). I recall the anchor scripting skills of Frank Agarwal at Business India TV (TVI) back in the mid-1990s. It is an art. Not everyone can excel in it. By the way, however great the anchor’s script may be, it is the duty of anchors to read and rescript to suit their linguistic comfort. I had faced challenges with many non-business anchors in handling my business/economic oriented scripts. Everyone is comfortable with general and political anchor scripts. Niche anchors who know the subject are a rarity.

***
I have extended my morning walks by two more kilometers. These days, I go up to Safa Park signal where Choithram supermarket is situated. Before sunrise, I see a clutch of newspaper delivery vendors wearing red T-shirts and sorting papers outside the park. Not a single dog in sight so far. I must bring Zack from Delhi soon to Dubai. Noticing a large number of cars parked outside Safa Lebanese Bakery diagonally across Safa Park, I quietly amble across. No coffee machine in sight. Pick up a Lebanese bread packet for the first time. It is crispy, wafer thin and breaks like Lijjad pappad. As I walk out of the Bakery, notice the orange ball of rising sun just behind the Burj Dubai tower on the horizon. Is it the same spherical beauty that torments a few hours later in the form of blazing heat? Yes, it is.

Good Morning, Dubai!-4

Jamalludin abruptly stopped his cab on the kerb 100 metres after he took me on outside Tusit Thani, the Thai specialty five-star hotel, on Sheikh Zayed Road on Tuesday night. What happened? He downed my side window and began asking directions to Jumeira from a fellow-cabbie. He got his response in English and flashed an apologetic smile. Immediately, I knew I am being taken for a ‘ride’ because the lean and emaciated looking Pakistani cabbie is new to Dubai and has no clue to the locations except Zayed Road! After a few minutes, he stopped near another cab near DIFC and got out. From his gestures, I could make out that he met his soul mate. I downed windows to hear his convesations. The two cabbies were speaking in an unrecognizable language – which I later understood to be Pashtu. My cabbie is from Peshawar.

After his return, he exhibited much more confident. The mid-30s Pakistani cabbie began to open up once he realized that I am from India and can speak Hindi. “Am here for the past 10 months and find interesting. Earlier I was in Abu Dhabi,” he says. Roughly 30,000 Dirhams he has spent over 9 car license tests! He almost went broke. Thirty five per cent of his total monthly revenue is his salary and assures me that he somehow makes it every month. He gives me his mobile number and refuses to accept money from me, because I am his half-brother from India! I thrust the fare into his shirt pocket and hug him. Indo-Pak bhai, bhai!

***
Global meltdown impact on Dubai is seen on the front pages of Gulf News. The lead story on Tuesday edition talks about the government amending certain laws to permit job losing expats to remain in Dubai on their visas for 30 days after the last day at work. This is basically to give time for them to find alternate jobs. There is also a clamour to give some concessions to their new employers in terms of reducing the processing fee etc. The National from Abu Dhabi, in its editorial, says 30 days is too short and canvasses for a longer gestation period. These people have spent a lot of time in this part of the world and have absorbed the local culture and got attuned. Recession is a temporary phenomenon and when the economy revives, UAE may need fresh workforce. It is better to give those who have had an exposure to Dubai a better deal than hiring a fresh lot. Assimilation takes a helluva lot of time. Am sure, many would appreciate such a gesture.

***
“I am lucky,” says Abdul as we drive down the Zayed Road for a meeting with someone. Why? “So far, I have made three return trips from Media City to Dubai. This is my fourth one and I don’t have to pay ‘salik’ (toll)!” he explains. Everytime he passes the main thoroughfare, 4 dirhams from his smart card is deducted through the scanner installed on the road by reading the sticker stuck on his front glass panel. Abdul says four dirhams is too much. “They provide better roads and take money from you for that!,” he utters. Any trip after donating 24 dirhams on any single day is free! That should explain Abdul’s happiness.

The economic impact is visible as many drivers try to avoid cruising through toll roads by taking free roads which naturally get choked up. On the one hand, their pay check has got a hit and over and above that, they have to shell out for using public utilities heftily, says Abdul. “The gap between any two cars at times is more than 200 metres!” he says gleefully. Once upon a time – hardly 6-8 months ago, it was a bumper to bumper drive. In a way, he is happy that he is able to drive at 100 km/hour speed at some sections of Zayed Road. Unimaginable until recently.
Insha Allah!

Good Morning, Dubai! -3

You’ve no reason to know Mona. No, am not talking about the late Hindi film villain Ajit’s sexy sidekick. But a recent female acquaintance who spruced up my life, in a way! Before you jump to conclusions and bite into my better half’s ears that there is another woman in my life – a newly acquired one, hang on. Mona is a Filipino housemaid. Two days into my new abode in Dubai, it was in a mess. Sajji, the Keralite car showroom clerk – the original lessee of my residence-in-Dubai and who had packed off his family as his income tumbled over the past six months – had given away the self-contained home as-is-where condition. You can imagine a house that had no ‘feminine’ touch.

In walks Mona, not-more-than four feet something, lean and hungry with a wad of currencies thrust into her palms by Abdul, my benevolent friend-cum-prospective employer, to ‘clean up the mess and make Ramesh’s life tolerable’ as he put it. ‘Surprise Ramesh when he returns home this evening,” is the parting message from Abdul to Mona as we hop into his Toyota Corrolla on Tuesday morning. Mona did not let me down when I enter with Abdul in tow at 11 in the night. Bingo, All belongings of Sajji have been nicely packaged and kept in the small forecourt after entering the house. Bed made up, kitchen and washroom cleaned up, all knick-knack strewn around the living-cum-bedroom are inconspicuous. And, above all, the home has been ‘sanitised’. I had no clue what Mona had done when she had met me around 5 p.m. in the office to hand over my flat key. Her tale is a sad one, which I will share sometime later. Thanks, Mona. I know one more Mona in Delhi, who is currently in Singapore pursuing her Masters in Business Administration, whose tale is equally poignant. Both Monas are cute pretty young things (PYTs), you know what I mean!

***
Believe me when I say there is an E 240 BMW and a Land Cruiser parked in front of my door! Of course, I don’t own them. Nor do I know its owners. But they are there. When I step up for morning walk, I gently run my palms over the BMW bonnet like petting my Zack! Will I own a car in Dubai? Did I own one in Muscat? Nope. Did I have one in Delhi. Yes. What’s the big deal, I ask myself. Stupid, first settle down. Then think about car etc, I hear a voice within me reprimanding.

***
By the way, April 27th was my 28th marriage anniversary. Wife greets me through SMS and then over phone. She breaks down. I too. Like Amitabh-Hemamalini in that tear-jerker – forgotten the name of the Hindi flick – we sob. Who says men don’t cry? I certainly do. It is therapeutic. Daughter and her pals send SMS greetings. Thanks, kids! For more than 4 years, I had never been at home for wedding anniversaries. Work always kept me away from home. Quietly I sing, “We shall overcome” between intermittent sobs and dilated eyes. Very senti stuff.

***
Around 6.30 p.m., we pack up and drive for early dinner becoz neither of us had lunch. ‘How about Lebanese?’ asks Abdul. Why not? We sit out in the open air restaurant with a gentle breeze in play. It is sparsely crowded. For starters, I order ‘falafal’, rock salad, hommus etc. When the piping hot falafal is served, it appears like south Indian medu vada, but crispy with sesame seeds prominent on the surface. Falafal reminds me of my Egyptian colleague, Zoher Al Araby, in Muscat. Abdul explains the difference between Egyptian and Lebanese style of falafal preparation. Tie-wearing and English speaking Lebanese stewards mill around pampering us with food. A potato preparation with soft, spongy and hot Lebanese roti, I take as main course. Top it with kiwi juice. My wife will kill me for drinking anything sweet! Why there is no cure for diabetes, I wonder.

***
We take a stroll and enter a bar for a bit of boozing. In one 4-star, our entry is disallowed because we are told men in ‘kanduras’ – white Arabic full-body covering tunic – are not permitted to drink. Abdul, an Emirati, is unconcerned. We move into another joint where he is a regular and we were more than welcomed. With Kolkata Knight Riders vs Bombay Indians IPL match in progress, we swig beer and snacks remain untouched till we leave. Abdul catches up with a Tunisian girl-steward and he recites a patriot couplet to her in Arabic. She is totally mesmerized and begins to recite the same along with him. I can see the linguistic bonding there! She reminds me of my friend, Dr Mezzazine, Dean of Economics and Business at University of Nizwa, who is again from Tunisia. Both speak fluent French. Neither I, nor Abdul.

***
Abdul’s friend brings his car back and we leave for home. It’s almost 11 p.m. when I return. In the process of sprucing up my new abode, I notice that Mona had disposed off the pictures of elephant-faced Ganesh, Sai Baba and Goddess of Wealth Lakshmi that I had pasted on the open shelf! All three deserted me in one go! What’s in store for me, I wonder. Once again, I pick up Robert Frost’s poetry collection. Unable to concentrate. But his famous “Miles to go before I sleep” poem that I had read in Class 11 (1972) reverberates at the back of my mind. I switch off lights to begin my noctural journey into the unknown. Insha Allah!

Good Morning, Dubai!-2

The first trip on Sunday was to Dubai World Trade Centre. Massive set up. Abdul parks his Toyota in the multi level parking lot – 6th or 7th floor! Really an uphill task! He has come to meet up with a government dignitary, who would be inaugurating an expo in the WTC. We get Media accreditation meanwhile and drink free coffee in the Registration arena. There are more than dozen exhibition halls on the ground level and out of which only two are hosting something or other. So, the huge set up presents an empty look! You’ve guessed it right: empty is the theme. The dignitary arrives on dot, cuts ribbon and we join the small crowd whom video/still cameramen shoot with and without flash. Will we appear in the next day’s paper, don’t know. Friend shakes hand and exchange Arab style greetings. We go along for a short distance and quietly withdraw to move elsewhere. At the other venue in the same premises, another senior government is scheduled to have opened another expo at 10.30 a.m. But the wrist watch shows 11.15 a.m. and no sign of him/her. But there are visitors and participants inside the hall. An eager organization crowd awaits the arrival of the dignitary. We move into the coffee shop to drink our cuppa. Losing patience, we scoot out.

***
Our next halt is another majestic hotel where over lemon slice-dipped diet coke and Turkish coffee (for my colleague-cum-friend), we continue our ‘dubai-gone-to-dhobi’ kind of talk. Greed is the single factor that emerges as the main reason for Dubai going overboard and snuffing out enthusiasm and driving away hordes of expats out to save their respective skins. After an hour, we move to the 26th floor restaurant for buffet lunch. Yes, it is empty except for the three of us. It was the same place, my friend tells me, where you have to wait for a minimum of an hour in the atrium to get a seat! The Thai staff greet us and allow us to pick our choice of seat. We are literally confused because every seat appears comfy and vacant as well. Who choice is a good thing? Lunch over, scoot out to Dubai Media City some serious work. Parking is easy which was unimaginable during my last trip to the same spot. Of course, it was two years ago! As I walk through the corridors of DMC, most offices are shut and learn that many have ceased to operate.

***
Around 6.30 p.m., we pack up and drive down to Zayed Road and friend suggests a coffee-shisha round on the main thoroughfare. He could not locate his favourite haunt and so we park near Sheraton and walk down. Restaurant after restaurant sports vacant look. Not a single soul inside restaurants. Remember it is 7 p.m. on a weekday! And that too in the main business district. I wonder what friend Matein Khalid might be doing at this hour in his office. Today being Sunday, world market would have been closed though for Dubai it is the first working weekday. Again the choice plays tricks. We were unable to decide where to shisha-n-sip. Barring us (two), there is a sole Emirati in the corner smoking his special stuff. Service is quick and fast. Over a strawberry laced mocktail, I look across to watch the moving traffic. Not that roads are empty. But the number of whizzing vehicles is on the lower side. Of course, you simply cannot jump across the divider and cross the road. No way. Single and double-decker buses are half-filled. I notice a few passengers waiting at the aesthetically structured bus shelters. Reminded of IPL dugouts. Except the frontal glass door and possibly airconditioned, given local climatic conditions.

***
I would have easily walked 5 kilometres up and down at World Trade Centre and near Zayed Road unknowingly. Not including my routine morning walks. Construction workers are nowhere in sight. Buildings that are nearing completion have slowed down because nobody is sure whether they will be able to let them out or sell. Why hurry? Friend suggests that property owners should come to the rescue to restaurateurs and help them by reducing rents or helping them in some way or other. Kind hearted soul!

***
I am dropped home. No TV. Don’t feel like eating. Feel like calling home, but give it up. Let me SMS tomorrow morning to greet my wife: it will be our 28th wedding day. I write the message for her and store it for delivery on Monday morning. During the day, by mistake, I had pressed ‘web’ on my mobile and it has eaten away 5 dirham unnecessarily. Every dirham counts, buddy in crises. I pick up Robert Frost’s collection of verses to engage my mind. No way. I give it up. Switch off lights and get in the warm clutches of Madame Sleep! Good night! Insha Allah!

Good Morning, Dubai! - 1

You may not believe it, but it did happen. As passengers to Dubai were getting ready to queue up through Gate No. 9 for Jazeera J9 423 around 4 p.m. on Saturday (April 25), suddenly the security personnel manning the security check counters fell flat on their tummies with their guns drawn and aiming at something. No shouts. No alarms. Nothing. Passengers strolling stood in amazement wondering what’s happening. Out of curiosity, many moved towards the scene of action. No shots were fired. Nor any suspicious movements noticed. “Film shooting,” said someone. “See there, dad,” shouted a kid with a lot of merriment written all over. This drama went on for close to 10 minutes. Suddenly a few security personnel came rushing and asked all passengers near Gate No. 9 to clear off the area and hustled all of them to Gate 1 on the ground floor. “This is no joke. Security drill is on. Move, move,” one lady security officer kept shouting. Interestingly, a Jazeera employee quietly dissuading passengers not to move to ground floor. Ultimately, we did go down for a short while.

***

I never knew Jazeera is a low cost airline. The friend who booked my ticket to Dubai did not inform me. I was hungry and kept waiting for something to be served after the flight took off on time. Suddenly, I noticed that many passengers were taking out their tiffin carriers and began eating rotis, parotas, samosa, kurkures, fruit juices in plastic bottles and cans. There was no sign of any cabin crew. That’s when I realized that you have to pay to eat something on board! “Whiskey?” I heard one passenger asking the stewardess at the rear. I picked up a bottle of water, coffee and a blackberry muffin after parting with Omani Rial.

***

Half the flight was empty. One of the cabin crew member was deep asleep for most of the three hour plus journey from Delhi to Dubai! Of course, the crew was very efficient. Nothing to serve. They kept to themselves. Very few passengers pressed the buzzer demanding anything. Cool, cool airlines!

***
It was a long walk on horizontally moving escalators from the aircraft to the exit gate – almost a kilometer! I was visiting almost after two years. The airport was almost empty! Yes, empty! The usual hustle and bustle was missing. Now they have introduced eye-scan security for incoming visitors. The number of passport control counters (immigration) was too many to count! In less than 5 minutes I passed through the immigration. Of course, there were few flights and few passengers at 6.45 p.m. (local time). The immigration counter clerk was very polite and asked whether he can help me with hotel booking! However, the wait at the baggage claim conveyor belt zone was long. Dubai airport is amazing. But I love it with teeming crowd. Not deserted one.
***

My friend was at the exit gate and we drove away quickly. Roads were almost empty. I was told that many expats have left due to the recessionary impact. So the traffic was very smooth. We parked at a petrol filling station to buy Etisalat prepaid card which again was sparsely crowded. Samantha, the Filipino sales counter who sold the prepaid card, kept insisting my friend to bring more visitors like me to her shop, because ‘business is dull’.

***
Our next halt was at Lido – roadside coffee-cum-shisha joint. Yes, it was again sparsely crowded. According to my friend, it would have been next to impossible to get a seat either inside or outside a few months ago. Customers were watching a live football match on a giant tv screen inside while others are surfing on the internet. We sip mint-n-lime juice and share shisha and exchange notes on the impact of global meltdown.

***

“Rents have crashed by more than 40 per cent,” tells my friend. During daytime, if you move around, you will see more ‘Tolet’ boards,” he adds. He arranged an one-living room, self-contained kitchen, bathroom outhouse near Zayed Road. The world’s tallest building under construction is hardly a kilometer away from my new tenement. The rent is 2700 dirhams for a month. He says it is cheap. I have no idea.

***
Wake up at 4 a.m. Rearrange my stuff. Go out for a walk. New country. New area. No Zack in tow. No wife to accompany. Weather is fine. I walk on Al Wasa road and bump into Emarat petrol station. Yes, I get my cuppa. Gulf News, a cellophane wrapped apple. “Have you taken your morning medicine?” demands an SMS from my better half. Read Sunil Vaidya’s Omani inventor story and congratulate him through sms. Light up a Marlborough.

***
96 hours ago when I left Muscat back to Delhi, I had no clue I would be back in the Gulf so soon. Man proposes, and God disposes. I simply have no idea what is in store. I am willing to go with the wind. Insha Allah!

Muscat Airport Re-entry

After six long months, today I had the chance to re-enter Muscat International Airport to see off my daughter heading for Delhi/India. Check in was silky: smooth and quick. In less than 10 minutes, she checked in and we were out for a cuppa @ Costa Coffee near the arrival lounge. When will my turn to cross the immigration gates will come? Dunno.

***

Picked Up a copy of Bob Dorgin's Curve Ball the real life spy story of what poor sleuthing led to the Gulf War II.

***

Why Asha cried?

Rajshekhar Chandola is sad.


Why?


Because Asha is sad and disillusioned.


Why the 3-year sibling of a Malaysian accountant working for Sohar Aluminimum is sad?


Because the promised dolphin did not show up apparently on the Indian Ocean off the Muscat coast.

We – Raj, the walking encycleopaedia from Lucknow; Jasper Daniel, the bearded creative head from ‘Bangalored’ – India’s silicon city; Rajesh Burman, our photographer colleague, and self – were mentally prepared when we set up on a hot summer Friday morning for a ride into the sea in the glass-bottomed boat from Marina Bander near Al Bustan Hotel in Muscat, Oman.

Because, we have been forewarned. Gulf Leisure Boat in charge Rashad Al Wahabi did not mince words as we climbed into the 22-seater top-covered motorboat: ‘There is no guarantee that we will see dolphins. We will try our best to locate spots and take you there, though.” Jas jokingly told the plumpy Omani guide – speaking decent English - to send an SMS to the dolphins. “Why not?” quipped Rashad much to our delight.

The cute little Asha with her elder brother – may be 4 years – accompanied by parents were in the same boat as it moved away from the jetty on the Friday morning under the blazing sun. She kept muttering, ‘dolphin, dolphin’. Bro was equally in fine spirits.

Captain Saif Al Wahabi, bearded and in white shirts and a ‘Gulf Leisure’ emblazoned collarless T-short beautifully took out the water chariot on to the sea, as Rashad began briefing on how to wear the life-jacket in emergencies. I paid a lot of attention as I had rough experience on air and road in the recent past. Water experience was the only missing element. Did it happen? You bet, it did. Wait for details.

The journey was smooth with Rajesh happily clicking from the speeding boat anything that captured his imagination. Both Rajesh and self were on an assignment for a Cover Story on whether Oman is ready and adequately equipped to handle the 2-day weekend being introduced by the private sector.

Half an hour into the 3-hour long ride on calm sea, Rashad shouted: ‘There… There…’. All of us began scanning the inky blue ocean surface for signs of the dolphin. Honestly, I did not see. “Where’s it, Rashad?” I quipped. ‘There….’ I turned around to check out with Raj and Jas. They also did not spot anything. Little Asha and her bro were curiously scouting the horizon. Another assistant, who joined Gulf Leisure just 48 hours ago and speaking Hindi, suddenly tut-tutted: ‘oh, oh.. it just vanished’. Meanwhile, the captain was navigating the boat into a circle formation to spot dolphins again. But in vain. Asha began to cry again.

Raj and Jas were closely watching the children on the lower deck while Rajesh was busy clicking photos on the upper open deck. ‘Did you see it?” I shouted at Rajesh to receive a negative reply.
A few minutes later, Rashad alerted to another sighting of dolphins. We did see some movement of black and white combo. Still unsure whether it was a dolphin or we were mistaking the little wave/tide for the elusive dolphin. The problem was our preconceived notions. Most of us have seen on celluloid the dolphin shows in the United States and Europe where dolphins dance, jump through a ring, kiss the coach and do everything. You see the dolphins in full flight, so to say. We have also seen the visitors in the auditorium going into delirium on the intelligent water creature’s actions.

But that was not to be the case on this Friday morning on the Indian Ocean. Dolphins were not in a mood to show up and perform for us. Or, if they did, it was not in that pre-conceived format. Jas wondered whether Rashad was fooling us. ‘Look, the 3-hour ride is the actual thing. If dolphins come up to show, it is a bonus,” I told them.

Contrary to our fear that we may get muggy due to hot and simmering sun, the ride was pleasant. The speeding boat kept on sprinkling sea water like a mild shower as it raced at a decent speed and the wind was equally cool. Yes, each one of took turns to stand at the astern to get fully drenched.


With Rashad and company knowing our media background and on an assignment they treated us royalty. We felt like we were on a private yacht. Soft drinks and candies were on tap constantly. His frequent alerts of dolphins were taken with a pinch of salt. Asha, meanwhile, had gone into sulking. Forget about dolphins, not even fishes which she had eagerly come to see, obliged her. Parents kept cheering her up by showing the water under the boat through the glass bottom.

Jas was getting excited. He was mentally prepared for the promised snorkeling. Rashad reminded us that we would stop for 45-minutes of snorkeling towards the end. Raj kept shuffling between the two decks with Jas in tow, while I was directing Rajesh to shoot this and shoot that. Actually, there was no need to tell Rajesh. He knows his job. Yet, I needed excellent images and want to utilize the ace cameraman to the maximum. Rajesh was not eager about snorkeling as we left home around 7.30 a.m. ‘There will be a lot of crowd and women …. How can I undress?’ was his concern. But I knew he would.

Rashad quietly showed up behind me and pointed to a boat bobbing on the sea at the distance. “We are going towards that boat. These boats stay put for fishing where they have spotted them. If fishes are there, dolphins are bound to be there.’ Asha’s bespectacled father gave a short synopsis of this good message to her in some indecipherable language while her mother repeated the same in English. ‘You know, she understands English,’ she told me as I queried.


All of us moved to one side of the boat to take a close look at the distant boat and the boat began to tilt onto one side dangeroulsy. Rashid advised us to spread ourselves on both sides so that the boat does not turn turtle!

However, disappointment was in store as there were no dolphins in sight. We moved away. Suddenly, Rashad began shouting: ‘There…. There. See there, two huge tortoises.’ Rajesh shouted back from the upper deck: “Yeah. I got it. They are mating. They are making love on high seas!’ Wow. If not dolphins, at least we had tortoise ‘performing’ for us. In no time, they vanished into deep waters, never to be seen again. Some solace. Some compensation.

Then we spotted a cargo vessel moving close by. It was first time, I saw a moving ship with containers in real life. I requested Rashad to circle the moving ship. Then I realized that it would not be possible because it was moving fast. I have seen several times moving ships from the air from the window seat of Oman Air/Gulf Air and Indian Airlines. They were just toys from above and the only indication that they were in motion was the white foam they were forming and leaving behind as they moved ahead.

‘Get ready for snorkeling,’ said Rashad. We realized that almost 90 minutes had passed since we left the shores. Despite disillusioned with dolphins’ ‘no-show’, we roamed around the waters to witness the Mattrah Fort, the Mirani Fort, caught up with a dozen fishermen anchored for fishing and speeding ones as well. Also glimpsed several motor boats carrying foreign visitors enjoying the May summer on the Oman’s seas.

Jas was the first one to equip himself with the snorkeling kit. The entire crew assisted each one of us personally to get into the gear. Even Rajesh relented and readied. With one condition that he would not be bare-bodied and he would wear his white vest. Of course, life jacket. Asha’s 38-year old father, an adept swimmer, jumped into the water non-chalantly and began stroking.


And Jas, from our side. Raj followed. And then Rajesh. I was the last to climb into the water. It was warm and transparent. We could see the sea bed at 3 metres below. Some rocky formation we could detect. However, we were unable to go down and touch the seabed thanks to the life jacket that kept us afloat on the surface of the water.

I began plying my hands and feet to gain movement. Moved away from the boat and steered towards the other side. I quietly caught up with Jas holding onto a round hole on the boat side. He was feeling uneasy, saying he had swallowed salty sea water in large doses. Empty stomach and the late night party the previous day at a colleague’s home added to his discomfiture. He quietly returned to the boat, ably assisted by the crew, never to return to the water during this trip.

Meanwhile, Raj and Rajesh hung on to the rope thrown at them and enjoying themselves. While Asha with her mother in tow remained on boat, her dad and bro splashed in the water. Bro was enjoying to the hilt and her mother was happily clicking photos to carry home. Soon, I saw Raj climbing back into the boat. Yes, he again swallowed sea water and felt giddy. He also got himself cut and bruised at several places. The crew was trying to apply ice cubes to stop the bleeding.

I had my own bit of trouble. I lost breathe and clung onto the sides of the boat for a while. Assisted by the crew again, I returned to the boat. Once on board, I realized that I had cut myself at several places and was bleeding profusely. Rashad and the Captain came rushing to wash up my wounds and tried to stop bleeding. But to no avail.

Like Raj, I had swum close to the hull of the boat and in the excitement got myself spliced by the rear engine blades. Added to that was the rough exterior of the boat that had bruised me badly. My only worry was that the blood should not alert sharks if there were in the vicinity! Then I will be a dead meat sooner than later. Luckily, the Oman coast is dolphin-friendly and not shark-infested.

I was in deep pain and consoled myself saying that I am unlikely to come for another ride in the near future. What’s happened has happened. Just get going. Again I jumped into the water to join Rajesh who hung onto the rubber tube tied through a rope to the boat. I caught hold of another thick rope and remained in water until the captain reminded that it was time to return.


Having removed the goggles and breathing apparatus, I remained floating on my back basking in the bright sunshine. Rajesh was the last swimmer to emerge out of water! What an irony? The man who said he would not jump into water, spent a lot of time on water and the other guy – Jas – who wanted to snorkel to his heart’s content could not.

Once on board, I noticed the deep cuts and bruises. I was still bleeding. The colour of blood was fascinating. It raced down from belly, thighs and knees like small streams. A month ago, Zack (my one and half year old Lhasa Apso) had expressed its displeasure while being treated for some ailment by leaving its claw marks all over my body. They just vanished now to be replaced by the Oman’s water marks!

The reason for those marks were pretty well known to my wife and daughter: dog-created. Now these deep cuts and bruises happened in Oman. Away from their eyes. Have I been mauled by someone in the course of some physical violence! My conscience is clear. I won’t be surprised if my family were to nurse doubts!

By the time, the clock stuck 12 noon, we were back on the shore. Did we see dolphins? Yes and no. But Asha did not, definitely. She kept on crying. I told her to go home and watch some DVD. Raj was sad, no doubt over Asha’s disappointment.

On the road back home, I SMS-ed family and friends:

‘WENT TO SE(A) DOLPHIN AT PLAY. INSTEAD GLIMPSED PASSIONATE LOVE MAKING OF TORTOISES ON HIGH SEA.
MORAL: TARGETS ARE MEANINGLESS!

Life is full of compromises, no?

An Argentinian Affair

‘I’m just Nigam for you. Cut the ‘Mr’ out. No need for formality,’ opined Nigam Prakash, a retired Indian Foreign Service officer. ‘Don’t we know each other well over the past two sitting?’ asks he as we sip piping hot tea seated on the verandah of the India International Centre, the prestigious watering hole of India’s power elite, on Lodhi Road.

He’s just plain. Simple. I watch him closely as he niftily lifts a potato wafer from the porcelain plate and scoop a bit of Tomato sauce from another plate kept near me. Soon I hear the crunchy wafer getting crushed inside his oral trapdoor.

‘How is the toasted cheese sandwich?’ Again Nigam. He recommended that I try this out, a favourite with many regulars at IIC. This is was my second sitting with him in the past 72 hours as we explore. I did not cherish the cheesed sandwich. Can I afford to be impolite to the diplomat? What diplomat? Is he not an ex? Don’t be fussy, I tell myself. Be straight. Tell him the truth. The journalist in me raises his head. Cool, Cool. ‘It’s fine. But it’s a bit heavy,” I respond. Before he recommends another serving, I politely move the plate away. Quietly my hands move towards his vegetable sandwich plate to pick up one quarter. In no time, it is melting in my mouth. Divine feeling.

Nigam was born hardly 24 hours before Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi – Yes, India’s father of Nation – launched the Quit India movement. ‘Possibly I heard his call to quit the country from my mother’s womb!,’ jokes the tall and lean bespectacled 1962 IFS cadre officer who had spent most of his life outside India serving India’s interests in far off lands. His last posting was at Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina where he served for a six-year long stint – the longest stay at a single posting in his career.

In my first sitting with him, when we sat inside the airconditioned cafeteria at IIC, both were a bit stiff. Very formal and quite business like. Though hungry, I politely declined his offer of sandwich or hot pakoras. Nevertheless, I had partaken a quarter of slice with yummy salad and hot cuppa by the time we parted. When we left that day, we never knew that we would come together again so soon. But it so happened, we were together again in a jiffy.

One thing I must confess. He is possibly the only person who had beaten me on punctuality. For a 4 p.m. appointment, I meet him at the parking lot 10 minutes before the deadline on day one. Second time, I reach 30 minutes early – again for a 4 p.m. rendezvous. As I gingerly amble across the empty IIC reception desk, I see him occupying a cane chair in the open air space under shades. Shucks! Beaten again. Next time, I must reach an hour earlier with a prayer on my lips that he does not turn up before me! Don’t be in business, if you cannot manage your time properly. If you fix a programme, better stick to it. No excuses, please!

‘Hi,” he waves at me with a cigarette dangling between his lips. ‘National Security’, screams a library edition book lying on the lawns near him. On the way for this meeting, I had decided that let me play the journo role to perfection. No business-like postures: Maybe I am too raw to play that role. Journo will be a cakewalk.

By the way, what is journo role? Simple. Make the other party feel comfortable. Loosen him/her up with light banter. Absolutely go for a freewheeling conversation. Talk anything and everything under the sun. Play by ear. No structured agenda. Not a formal q&a session. Just be yourself, I tell myself.

“What were you doing in Argentina of all places?,” is my opening gambit. That too for six years. ‘A beautiful country. As big as India, you can say… The full credit goes to my daughter…” responds Nigam. Daughter? What’s this mystery? Could not help asking the inevitable ‘how?’.

Nigam’s second daughter was studying in British School and one fine morning told her diplomat father that the best British School in the world is in Buneos Aires. So what? asked the dad. She wanted to pursue higher studies in the US/Canada and felt a hop from South America will be better and quicker. Who told you so?, asked the father. Another highly placed officer’s ward, her classmate, was the one planting the seeds of Nigam’s Argentina plans. Anyhow, he did not pursue. During a casual meeting with his senior colleague in the foreign ministry, Nigam was stumped when he was asked: ‘I am hearing that you are looking for Argentina posting.” Nigam’s daughter was lobbying hard behind his back on his behalf. After all, she is a diplomat’s daughter and knows how to lobby. The rest, as they say, is history.

Do you know Tagore spent three months in Argentina? Nigam asks.

You mean Rabindranath Tagore? I demand and Ambassador Nigam (that is how he is introduced to me by a mutual friend) nods his head affirming that is the truth.

What was Tagore doing in Argentina? According to Manishankar Aiyer, a cabinet minister in the present government and a former IFS officer, Tagore had fallen sick on his way to Peru and spent time in Buenos Aires for three months under the care and watchful eyes of the government. After all, he was the Nobel Prize winner for literature and a friend of the British. Incidentally, Mani was Nigam’s senior batchmate. Another interesting fact: Nigam had played Mani’s father in one of the stage plays and they maintain that father-son relationship even today. ‘Mind you, I am younger to him at least by 2 years,’ reminds Nigam.

A lot of stuff he had shared with me on Argentina is meant for my ears only. Too hot and will be impolite to share with one and all. Maybe Nigam is planning a Memoir. ‘Don’t know… I love poetry,” interjects as he seems to be in an open-sesame mood. Twinkling and smiling eyes. Relaxed posture. Tea pot gets empty in double quick time and sandwiches are vanishing.

What about his Gulf stint? That’s another story.

Memory Lapse

‘Wipe everything. That’s the only way out,’ advised Murali Kannan, senior systems manager at UMS Interactive. I gawked at him. Thirty odd months hard labour. Cherished conversations through email. Official and personal.

‘Can’t something be done as an alternate route to save my hard disc?’ I posed the question to Shamir Ravindran, another IT wizard at the Muscat office. His effortless extended lower lip as response convinced me of the impending misery. Money, I can afford to lose out. Memory? I can't.

They were helpless. Not that they did not try. For a week, my life came to a standstill with my official email id – the only link with family, friends and colleagues, business partners (existing and potential) – getting jammed. I was literally crawling and bawling .

What the heck? Information is power. Suddenly I became powerless in the absence of access to business intelligence stored on my mail server. I was in a soup. A month ago, a truck ran over my flash/pen drive on the National Highway 8 linking Delhi with Jaipur in a bumper-to-bumper drive during peak hours. Soon after that, my laptop hard disc crashed – yes, cleaning my information bank in one stroke – thus forcing me to go in for reformatting. So I have to begin from a clean slate. Triple tragedy, did you say? Ohmigod, mercy pleeze!

‘What options I’ve! Do it,’ I told Murali grudgingly. At least, my mail identity will be restored immediately. My circle of acquaintances will be able to recognize me once again. Otherwise, my missives sent from unofficial ones were spiked at the recipients’ end. Loss of face and business.

When I logged in a few hours later, my official email id was restored, bereft of any back up files. Inbox, Sent and other folders appeared like ghost house. Empty. A severe pain shot through my spine. What cannot be cured must be endured!

What if my mental – instead of cyber – memory were to be wiped out? This quirky thought ran through abruptly as I sat on the hard bed in my seventh floor guest accommodation. Except a few sparks of lights on the nearby black and grey hillock on the horizon, Muscat was in deep slumber. What do you expect at 2 in the morning as I blog this? That too on Friday early morning! Floodlights on the court yard behind my building was switched off to save energy perhaps. The row of white multi-storeyed (not more than 7 floors, as is customary in Oman) concrete edifices stood up clearly giving a good contrast to the pitch dark backdropp.

Suppose, I lost all my memory but alive! I was fully drenched in cold sweat from fear in no time. Got up, toothbrushed, gulped my daily quota of blood sugar and b.p. medicine. Made a cup of hot tea – sugarless, of course. Powered up ipod and laptop. My college days hot babe, Zeenat Aman began to woo the one and only saintly Manoj Kumar with ‘Hai hai majboori’ from the 1970s flick, Roti, Kapada Aur Makaan.

My memory began to unspool fast. The day I saw Roti, Kapada.. was a red letter day in my life. Know why? I saw three movies – back to back in a single day, hopping from one theatre to another on the busy Mount Road, Chennai (then known as Madras) for the first time. (yes, I have repeated the 3-flicks-in-a-day format last year in Delhi and Bahrain a few weeks ago. Details soon.)

It was in 1974-75. Midsummer Madras heat. With two friends in tow, began the day with Cleopatra, featuring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton for a 70 mm screen presentation at Safire (the first multiplex perhaps in the southern metropolis. Or is it for the entire India?). The next halt was at Devi complex, three kilometers away for Roti, Kapada cinema hall. For the third and record breaking day, I did not have to scoot because the next film chosen was playing in the same complex but at Devi Paradise, Selvam (meaning wealth), featuring the evergreen Tamil matinee idol and thespian Sivaji Ganesan. An English movie, a Hindi flick and last, but not the least, a Tamil entertainer.

As I fast-forward to 1990, how can I forget getting pushed to the ground outside Larsen & Toubro corporate headquarters by bodyguards as I had chased Mukesh Ambani after a board meeting in Ballard Estate to get a quote for Mid-Day whom I was reporting for? The Ambanis had clandestinely taken over the multi-crore engineering conglomerate and the V P Singh government was trying to disentangle the powerful business family from L&T and I was covering on a daily basis.

How can I brush aside the sweet memories of chasing my first crush – a junior girl in the neighbourhood – by rolling a discarded rubber tyre a few yards behind her en route to the vegetable market every morning? Was it the early 1970s? Or the maiden public kiss on a crowded railway platform in Chennai and the embarrassment of facing co-passengers inside the compartment till the Bombay Mail reached its destination in 1980?

Or trying to recollect the October 2005 situation just outside the Seeb International Airport, Muscat. Emerging out of the airport for the first time, I scan the horizon for camels and sand dunes! Or the smelly experience of living with just one pair of pant, shirt and a black jacket in Dubai for three consecutive days after Gulf Air for strange reasons routed my baggage to Amman in Jordan instead of Muscat, Oman – leaving me clotheless, brushless and everything less.

Memories, sweet and sour. Nevertheless, educative, expressive and soulful. Saint, I was. Sinner I was. More years to go, perhaps. Sober maybe. What if my mental disc gets cleaned out for whatever reason and kept alive?

By the way, who am I? What am I doing? What’s the sound I am hearing? What’s that? Where am I? And, who am I talking to?

More to follow….

Bahrain @ 4 a.m.

Habits die hard. I just can’t sleep beyond 4 a.m. Indian Standard Time. Come what may, I have to get out of bed. Even if my biological clock malfunctions, Zack will act as my alarm by licking my face and jumping all over. Because it is time for its morning ablutions! Zack, by the way, is my one year old Lhasa Apso male – a gift to my daughter by her friends.

Be it Delhi, Muscat or Bahrain (where I am now on a short visit), the alarm went off at 4 a.m. IST! Considering Bahrain is two-and-a-half hours behind, I woke up at 1.30 a.m.! That’s the time the night life is coming to an end and the Central Manama cabbies are doing roaring business ferrying inebriated souls – nay, bloated tummies – of all nationalities. Lot of noise and honking of horns.

Got into my Bermudas and T-shirt and stepped out of Delmon International to peek at the chaotic scenario on the roads. Reminded me of my Bombay days in the 1980s. Even at 1.30 in the morning, the city used to be very active. I had taken a Victoria ride at that unearthly hour on the Diamond necklace part of Chowpatty. Even did a 1000 word feature ‘A night outside Churchgate’ for the now-defunct The Indian Post (1988)!

The janitor looked at me curiously and enquired “all well?”. I responded with a smile and did a short detour for 5 minutes before I felt it was mad to go for the one hour walk and returned to room.

Since I could not – and did not – get into the lap of Dame Sleep, began reading an article in Esquire, November 2007 issue on why one should not ignore reading Harry Potter series. It may be trash, but it is going to be the defining moment as today’s kids who devour HP get into the hotseats in government and corporate and begin talking HP as the reference point. If you and I have no clue as to the characters and plot of HP series, we are a gone case. Must pick up HP soon!

Time flew fast as the The Most Sexiest Woman Alive cover story in Esquire kept me buuuuuuuuussssssssy! Read the online version at www.esquire.com. Very unusual treatment for a cover story of even this nature! Honestly, I did not like it a wee bit. But, it is Esquire. How can you ignore?

Sharp 4 a.m. Bahrain local time, I stepped out again. It was windy. Bit cold. Cabbies chased me to know whether I need a ride. I did not. They moved away. There was a lot of activity on the roads. Bulldozers, excavators were moving towards I don’t know where. Maybe for some construction site. Lot of Indian, Pakistani labourers in company clothes were rushing with a plastic bag containing food, I presume. Nearby Bus Terminal wore a festive atmosphere with lot of talk, tobacco smoke, chattering of Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu etc.

Buses were slowly creeping in to disgorge people from various parts. Roadside restaurants were serving piping hot black tea in tall glass containers. Many Bahrainis were engaged in eating huge Pakistani type rotis with side dishes and a lot of green salad. Even some Indians and Paksitanis were having their breakfast at 4 a.m.! Maybe they may not get time before noon to eat.

Uniformed Manama Municipality workers have begun their day sweeping roads filled up with muck and throwaways. Shops owned by Keralities were opened already and rushing workers were picking up some cookies and beedis/cigarettes.

As I moved into the King Faisal Causeway, the main thoroughfare connecting Bahrain with Saudi Arabia, I could not miss the inky blue sky. The red lights positioned strategically at various levels on the huge twin towers of Bahrain Financial Harbour were winking at some unknown angels. The traffic on the road was incessant. Who are they and where are they going, I could not fathom. A few young Indians were jogging merrily in propah branded attire.

I quietly moved into a Bahraini type roadside restaurant for a cup of tea. Of course, it was manned by whoelse but our own kith and kin from Kerala! It was packed at 5.15 a.m. The elderly Karimbhai – from Talacherry – took my order and returned in double quick time. His Arabic was fluent and Hindi was no less. Could not help engage him a bit of conversation. He came 30 years ago and visits home every two years. ‘Life has been nice,’ he replies in between serving customers. ‘Are you from Kerala?’ he asks earnestly. I say, ‘no’ but from Chennai. Immediately he responds with his recollection of Madras which he has visited 40 years ago!

By the time I return to room, the wristwatch shows 5.30 a.m. I could not help compare my early mornings in Muscat. There again I wake up at 4 a.m. and go for a walk upto Wadi Kabir round about and return to Star Cinema, take a u-turn to come back to Ruwi guest house. All in a span of 75 minutes. This includes a stopover at Oman Oil petrol pump for a hot cuppa or the Shell Select on the same stretch.

There is very little life or activity on Muscat roads at 4 a.m. Barring a few heavy duty trucks and a sporadic cars moving at fast clip, I don’t witness human activity. Occasionally, see kids play football on the open grounds before Star cinema.

Bahrain is different, no doubt. More life in early mornings. Like Delhi.

Cheers

Sohar Port expansion

Port Of Rotterdam eyes 170 mln euro Oman expansion
Fri Nov 2, 2007 12:09pm GMT

By Lucy Hornby

TIANJIN, China, Nov 2 (Reuters) - Rotterdam port is planning to invest in a 170 million euro ($246 million) expansion of a port in Oman, even as it enlarges its own facilities to accommodate increased traffic from Asia, its president said.

China's emergence as the world's third largest trading nation has pushed freight rates to record highs and strained port capacity from Europe to the Americas to Australia.

Port of Rotterdam, in the midst of a massive expansion, also is looking at investment opportunities in India.

"As the Port of Rotterdam, we want to invest abroad," Hans Smits told Reuters in an interview in the Chinese port of Tianjin on Thursday.

Chinese demand has helped push crude oil prices to record highs, leading to booming demand for steel and consumer goods in the Middle East and supporting new port construction there.

Port of Rotterdam, already in a joint venture with Oman's government to run the Sohar port, will invest directly with its partner in a planned expansion that would accommodate a $1 billion iron ore pellet project proposed by Brazilian miner Companhia Vale do Rio Doce, or CVRD (RIO.N: Quote, Profile, Research)(VALE5.SA: Quote, Profile, Research).

A final commitment awaits CVRD's final decision on the 7.5 million tonne pellet plant, expected by the end of this year.

Port of Rotterdam and its partner would contibute "tens of millions" of euros, with the rest funded through bank financing.

In India, it is looking at possible investments in a greenfield or an existing port, Smits said, but declined to comment further.

"We'll stick to our business and to our core competence. We are not going to invest in terminals themselves; we are sticking to the 'landlord model.' We are very good in the master plan, in designing and operating ports, but we are not a Dubai World".


EUROPE PORTS GROWING

"Within seven to nine years, container capacity in a number of European ports needs to be doubled, it's as simple as that," Smits said, adding volume is growing by 10-15 percent a year, driven by trade with China, Japan and Korea.

Rotterdam, a major transit point for oil, coal, grains and other commodities, handles about 35 percent of European port traffic by tonnage.

New procedures and a new sense of urgency would allow European governments to speed up decisions on infrastructure investment, Smits said, although he said quicker approvals did not mean ports would no longer be held responsible for environmental mitigation.

The port will buy "natural areas" in Rotterdam and along the coast to offset areas impacted by its land reclamation project, which begins next year, he said.

The Dutch government has purchased 500 million euros of shares in the Port of Rotterdam to help underwrite its expansion.

Germany, the Netherlands and Belgium are all speeding up construction of public infrastructure, while barge traffic is growing along the Seine as capacity increases at the port of le Havre, port executives said this week.

"There is an awareness growing in Europe to speed up decision making, to invest more in infrastructure, to facilitate the growth in the transport of goods to Europe and also the exporting of goods," Smits said.

Rotterdam's 2.8 billion euro expansion will enable between 6 billion and 10 billion euros of investment by other companies, including a 1 billion euro oil refinery upgrade by Royal Dutch Shell (RDSa.L: Quote, Profile, Research).

That also includes biofuel plants capable of producing 2 million tonnes a year of biodiesel and bioethanol and new power plants fuelled by biomass and coal.

8.3% GDP growth @ half time

Natural gas fires Oman economic growth
Reuters on Sunday, 04 November 2007

Oman's economy grew 8.3% at current prices in the first half of the year driven by expansion in natural gas production and non-oil sectors such as industry, the official Oman News Agency (ONA) said.

Gross Domestic Product (GDP) in the six months ended June 30 was 7.266 billion rials ($18.88 billion), up 8.3% from the same period a year earlier, ONA reported on Friday, without giving a comparative figure.

The value of crude oil and gas output rose 0.2% to 3.41 billion rials in the first half, the agency said, citing official statistics.

Growth in the first half was mainly due to a 30.1% gain in the contribution of natural gas to 262.3 million rials, ONA said. That compared with 200.4 million rials in the first half of 2006.

The value of non-oil sector output rose 16.9% in the six months to 3.98 billion rials, while the value of industrial sector output grew 17.9% to 971.3 million rials, ONA added.

Analysts' forecasts were for Oman's economy to grow 38.6% in nominal terms and 5.9% in real terms in 2007, according to a Reuters poll conducted last December.

Dollar Peg - Saudi falls in line - 3

Gulf States and the Dollar Link
Rate Cuts to Match Fed Could Increase Inflation;
Betting on a 'Depegging'

By ANDREW CRITCHLOW
November 2, 2007; Page A2

DUBAI, United Arab Emirates -- Oil-rich Arab sheikdoms, risking new inflation pressure, followed the U.S. Federal Reserve's lead by lowering official interest rates to keep their currencies aligned with the dollar.

Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Kuwait and Bahrain followed the Fed's decision to cut interest rates by a quarter percentage point.

PEGGED DOWN

• The News: Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Kuwait and Bahrain followed the Fed's decision to cut interest rates by a quarter percentage point.
• Background: The Gulf states' exchange rates are pegged to the dollar, whose decline has diluted the benefit of record oil prices.
• What's Next: Rampant inflation in the region has increased pressure, particularly on the U.A.E., to sever ties with the dollar, which could further add to the dollar's woes.Because their exchange rates are pegged to the dollar in fixed trading ranges, monetary policy in the Persian Gulf states must mirror U.S. moves to avoid pressures from capital drifting to the currency with the most favorable interest rates.

The moves came despite concerns over rampant inflation in the region, which suggest central banks should be raising, instead of lowering, rates. Bankers said the policy conflict is building pressure on the Gulf states to unbind from the dollar.

Nowhere in the Middle East are the strains more acute than in the U.A.E., where investors are betting on a "depegging" of the dirham as domestic inflation pressures increase.

"Speculators are definitely bidding on a depegging, and that's why they're increasing their dirham deposits," Henry Azzam, Middle East chief executive at Deutsche Bank AG, told Zawya Dow Jones Newswires in an interview.

Attracting that money are chances of a quick profit once the peg snaps. Deposits held in the emirates' banks have exceeded one trillion dirhams ($272.3 billion) for the first time, more than is deposited in the region's largest economy, Saudi Arabia, latest central-bank figures show.

"The probability of depegging has increased," said Kamran Butt, Dubai-based chief economist at Credit Suisse Group. "The market consensus is for the U.A.E. to depeg." A decision by the U.A.E. to sever ties with the dollar could alienate the U.S. and add to the dollar's woes at a time of economic uncertainty and record oil prices.

The dollar, which fell to all-time lows against the euro and 26-year lows against sterling in the aftermath of Wednesday's rate cut, was at $1.4437 against the euro, from $1.4486 Wednesday. The U.K. pound was at $2.0787, from $2.0793 Wednesday.

The dollar's slump has pushed up the cost of imports to the Gulf, fueling inflation. The dollar's decline has watered down the benefit of record oil prices in the region that is expected to accrue a surplus in excess of $500 billion this year, according to Saudi lender Samba Financial Group.

Kuwait, the region's third-largest Arab oil producer, was the first to break ranks with its Gulf peers in May when it shunned its peg with the dollar by allowing the dinar to float against a basket of currencies and in a range against the dollar. It retains a loose dollar peg and joined other states in cutting rates yesterday.

The seven emirates are Abu Dhabi, 'Ajman, Al Fujayrah, Sharjah, Dubai, Ra's al Khaymah and Quwayn.

With inflation expected to exceed 10% for a second consecutive year in the U.A.E., the emirates' ruling sheiks face the region's greatest fiscal policy challenge since the U.K. devalued sterling in 1967, forcing Gulf states to turn to the dollar as a benchmark.

When the emirates created the dirham in 1973 they linked it effectively to the dollar. Now bankers such as Deutsche's Mr. Azzam are unsure whether the U.A.E. is ready for another such change. "I don't think a depeg will happen because that's a regional decision and it has served the U.A.E. so far," he said.

--Mirna Sleiman and Oliver Klaus contributed to this article.

Oman - Gas exports

Oman ramps up S.Korea gas exports
Reuters, 30 October 2007

South Korea has signed a memorandum of understanding (MoU) with Oman to receive an additional two million tonnes of liquefied natural gas (LNG) annually from next year, Seoul's energy ministry said on Tuesday.

The additional LNG represents a 49% increase from the 4.06 million tonnes a year South Korea currently imports from Oman.

Oman has also agreed to provide spot LNG in the winter to South Korea, which experiences LNG shortages from December to March due to high heating use, the ministry said.

"The deal will secure South Korea with a stable LNG supply, even in high-demand winter season," the ministry said in a statement.

With the additional volume, Oman will become South Korea's fourth-largest LNG supplier, following Qatar, Indonesia and Malaysia.

In 2006, South Korea imported 24.6 million tonnes of LNG, of which 27% came from Qatar.