Happy Birthday Bahrain!

16 December is Bahrain's National Day and the 10th anniversary of King Hamad's accession to the throne. The flags are out all over the island and celebratory events lined up.

So as my own celebration, I thought I'd post some of my favourite Bahrain photos. I hope you like them.

The Flood

I spoke too soon.

The rain started again on Sunday night and lashed down in almost Biblical proportions for 2 days and nights. Here is our street on Tuesday morning.

My friend, Anne, had to give her kids fireman's lifts across the deluge to get out of her house. Luckily she's a northern Irish lass and comes equipped with wellies and waterproofs - things which are nigh on impossible to find in Bahrain when needs must. I know; I tried.

And, of course, most Bahrainis aren't good at driving in rain. Motorways became lethal as locals adopted even more dangerous driving habits than normal, vacillating between racing madly with no headlights and scant regard for deep surface water and dropping to almost snail's pace with hazards flashing causing pile-ups from behind. There have been more than 500 reported road accidents in the last three days and traffic authorities have had to recall staff from holidays to handle the chaos.

Still, the constant downpour and accompanying mud and dirt all over (and inside) the car (and house), the frizzy hair, the running mascara and damp clothes have all made me feel quite at home again!

STOP PRESS - It's raining

I mean really raining - pouring, in fact. I'm so excited. We haven't seen rain like this in Bahrain since last February. I may have to go outside and get soaked, just for the novelty.

And then look for the umbrella...

Oh, no need. It's stopped.

Competitive parenting

Have you noticed how competitive everything is at schools these days? And not between the pupils, between the parents.

Kids' parties have become a hugely lucrative business as parents vie to put on the best show. But do children really need entertainers, bouncy castles and luxury party bags? And why does the whole class have to be invited? What's wrong with inviting a select few for pass-the-parcel and jelly and ice-cream?

Another breeding ground for oneupmanship is the school dress-up day. Olivia had one recently. She has been studying Ancient Egypt and the whole of her year had to come dressed for an Egyptian feast. Which is a great idea, except for the frenzy it seems to cause among parents as they desperately try to outdo each other on the costume front. Outfits were commissioned from local tailors or sent for at great expense from overseas websites, designs were endlessly discussed in the playground. Is it any wonder kids become demanding?

According to the British press, parents are now spending up to GBP150 on "manger chic" designer costumes for their children taking part in nativity plays. The UK department store Debenhams noticed the trend a couple of weeks ago when parents began asking the store's personal shoppers how to create the perfect nativity makeover. Ivory white bridesmaid dresses, bejewelled turbans and fleeced duffle coats (for the donkeys, apparently) were being snapped up.

The store noticed that it was the parents of those children cast in the minor parts of sheep and donkeys that were spending more, presumably to compensate for the lack of a starring role. This is competitive parenting gone mad. What's wrong with a tea-towel and a bit of tinsel? As a representative of Debenhams put it:"The amount of money that some parents want to spend on their child's nativity play appearance would enable Baby Jesus to leave the stable and check into a five-star hotel." Quite.

Yet just look at the photo above to see what can be achieved with a white nightie, an old gold scarf, some cheap bracelets from the souk and liberal application of Rimmel eyeshadow and eyeliner. I give you "Livvy-o-patra" for the princely sum of less than a tenner. Oh, and no agro (priceless).

Eid al-Adha

Today is the second day of Eid al Adha or the Festival of the Sacrifice, a three day festival which falls at the end of the Haj.

The festival commemorates the Prophet Abraham's (Ibrahim's) near-sacrifice of his son to Allah and Muslims traditionally celebrate by slaughtering an animal such as a sheep or goat. They are asked to give a third of the meat to the poor and another third to friends and relatives, symbolising their willingness to forgo something that is precious to them. Schools and offices are closed and people visit family and friends and exchange greetings and gifts.

We went for a family walk in a plantation on the east side of the island and almost everyone we saw greeted us with a cheery "Eid Mubarak!" (Happy Eid) and gave the girls a kiss. The weather was perfect and the date palms looked magnificent.

The farm workers were playing cricket and volleyball or simply sitting and relaxing in the shade of the date palms. Even the security guard at the entrance to the King's late uncle's palace complex let us through with a cheery wave and we managed to get a peek at his seaside pad. What do you think?

And how's this for an Arabian sunset? The view is from Bahrain directly towards Saudi Arabia.

What a drag

I need help. My mild-mannered husband who has never shown the slightest interest in strutting his stuff in a souped-up motor (previous vehicles have included a Holden Camira and a Niki 650) or trembled at the throaty roar of a V8 engine has suddenly become a petrol-head.

Since returning this week from a work trip to LA, he can't stop talking about ... drag racing. DHL sponsor a team in the US and he was treated to a couple of days at the track with all-areas access. He got to meet the drivers, visit the trailers and mingle with the surgically-enhanced WAGs.

Personally I can't see the thrill in watching cars burning rubber and then hurling themselves down a dead straight track in a race that only lasts seconds, but apparently it's so exciting that Ian is now a convert.

It's the noise, the smell, the atmosphere, he told our not-so-enraptured dinner guests on Friday night. They didn't look convinced.

He can't wait to go back next year and, most worrying of all, last night I caught him fixing a NHRA (National Hot Rod Association) sticker to the back of his car. And he didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed.

Bring Back Adam!

I can't imagine the anguish British mother Rebecca Jones is suffering.

Rebecca's son Adam is in year 6 at St Christopher's Junior School, Bahrain - the same school my daughters attend. Adam's father, Jamal, was a Qatari national whom Rebecca married in 1998. Although the couple divorced in late 1999, Jamal continued to visit Adam regularly from Qatar.

When Jamal was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident in 2005, Rebecca stayed in touch with his family and took Adam to Qatar to visit his grandparents and aunts and uncles.

She and Adam were in Qatar visiting his relatives this October and had spent two enjoyable days with them. On the day they were due to leave, an uncle rang Rebecca at her hotel and asked if Adam could come once more to visit his sick grandmother. She agreed and a driver was sent for Adam. He later called to say he had arrived safely and would be back in an hour.

Rebecca was then asked by Adam's uncle to meet him to sign some papers relating to a parcel of land Adam was going to inherit. The legal papers were in Arabic, but this was an uncle she knew and trusted. She signed.

The papers were nothing to do with land, but were documents which allowed Adam's supposedly ill 77 year old grandmother to file for full custody of the child. This she duly did.

Rebecca has not seen her son since. She has had absolutely no contact with Adam since that date. Neither the Qatari judge nor the relatives have allowed her to visit or speak to her son. Nor did the judge insist on Adam being present at any of the court hearings so that his well-being could be established.

The final custody hearing was last week. The court awarded full custody to the grandmother.

It is inconceivable to me that any judge could grant custody to a 77 year old grandmother over the child's own mother. Adam has a sister and stepfather in Bahrain. He was born and raised there. He has friends he has been at school with since kindergarten. No-one, least of all Rebecca, knows how the situation has been explained to Adam. And how can any woman who has suffered the loss of a child in the way the grandmother did then callously inflict that same pain on another mother?

And it is unlikely the British government will do anything to intervene because the ruling was based on religious grounds. Its aim was to bring Adam back to the Islamic fold and to ensure that he is brought up according to his late father's religion. This despite the fact that Adam was enrolled in various classes in Bahrain to ensure his Muslim heritage was respected.

You see, in this part of the world, if a non-Muslim woman marries a Muslim man, that marriage and any children it produces are subject to Sharia law and if everything goes wrong, the "normal" rules as we see them do not apply. It was, apparently, pretty much a foregone conclusion that the Qatari relatives would be awarded custody, even though they were only able to bring the case through tricking Rebecca and Adam.

Friends of Rebecca Jones, parents at the school and the local press in Bahrain are all doing their bit to publicise the family's plight. I am trying to do the same by writing this post.

Technical problems

Sorry for the long silence; I have been having computer problems. Last week I went to switch on my laptop and nothing happened, no sign of life whatsoever. Just a black screen staring back at me.

This is something I dread for 2 reasons: first, I know nothing about computers. I am a member of techno-wizardry's "Lost Generation" - too old to have learned computing at school and having left full-time employment and the support of those nice guys in IT before I really had a chance to get to grips with anything remotely technological. Consequently I am totally reliant on others to fix any problems. Second, I live in Bahrain, where getting anything fixed efficiently, on-time and with minimum fuss is, quite frankly, impossible.

I set aside an entire morning for the task. The first challenge was finding the repair shop. When I lived in Australia, I used to laugh at the Aussie's lack of imagination when naming their streets and towns. Sandy Creek Road is a road next to a sandy creek, Mountain View Road is a road with a mountain view, and so on. But at least the Aussies bother to give their roads a name, even if they only select from a limited pool.

In Bahrain, unless the road is a six-lane highway - in which case it is named after the King or his father - it is not given a name at all. It is instead allocated a number. Then the district it is in is given another number. So, an address may read something like: Apartment 756, Building 333, Road 1230, Area 327. For Ian, who has difficulty remembering his 4-digit bank PIN code, remembering our address is impossible. Couple this with the fact that there is no such thing as a street directory and you begin to understand why going anywhere new becomes a nightmare.

I find the address of the Dell repair shop, which gives me absolutely no clue as to its location. I ring the shop and speak to a nice man called Umar who tells me the shop is behind the Kuwait Building in a part of town called Gudaibiya. I don't know where the Kuwait building is andUmar is not forthcoming. This is another problem - getting directions over the phone from someone whose first language is not your own and who frankly couldn't really care less whether you ever find their shop.

Some time and many u-turns later, I finally find myself in the Dell repair shop. Umar tells me I need a new motherboard. I don't know what a motherboard is, but it sounds important and my laptop is relatively new, so I'm cross. Umar smiles, shrugs his shoulders and tells me I've just been unlucky. Grrrrrrr.

"We have to order the part from Ireland," he says.

"How long will that take?" I ask.

Umar sucks in air through his teeth, shakes his head and tells me: "Four days, maybe five." He pauses, smiles and then adds: "Inshallah".

Ahhh, there it is, that word I dread hearing whenever I need to get something done: Inshallah, or "If Allah wills it."

Anyone who has lived in the Middle East knows that the word is liberally used by all repair men, or indeed anyone you ask to do anything. And in this context, particularly when followed by a knowing smile, means "in your dreams" or "not a hope in hell."

So when the plumber tells you he will be there this afternoon ... Inshallah, expect him next week and only then after you've made sixteen furious phone calls to his boss. When a parent at school tells you they'll pick up their daughter from a playdate at 4pm ... Inshallah, don't bank on them arriving until at least 6pm.

Inshallah - it's the ultimate get-out clause, said ever so politely, with a wry smile. Let's hope UK builders never latch on to it.

Joy!

Oh joy! Happiness, gladness, glee, delight, elation, jubilation ... you get the drift of my mood.

The children went back to school this morning. Home schooling is at an end. The house is quiet and I am calm - at least until 3.30pm.

A world record and a royal wedding

The Kingdom is abuzz with excitement as Bahrain is on track for its first ever entry into the Guinness Book of World Records. What for? Well that's the bit that's not so exciting - it's for having the most signatories on a cyber electronic card. Yes, really.

"Royal wedding card may set record" ran the headline in the local press. More than 3000 well-wishers have so far signed an e-congratulations cybercard marking the marriage of Shaikh Nasser, the King's fourth son. Contacts are underway for this "unprecedented achievement" to be officially registered as a world record.

When I was a girl, I used to receive the latest copy of the Guinness Book of Records each Christmas and marvel over the world's tallest building, fastest athlete or fattest man (he was always the best photo) but I'm not sure as a 9-year-old I would have been even a teensy bit titillated to know which greeting card had the most signatures, cyber or otherwise.

Personally I am far more interested in the event which generated this record attempt - the Royal wedding. Shaikh Nasser is a good-looking bloke, sporty (he leads the Bahrain National Endurance Team in all matters equestrian), a poet (he's apparently published countless poems) and loaded (obviously).

If this had been Europe, his and his bride-to-be's faces would have been plastered on mugs, tea towels and postcards in every souvenir shop for months beforehand; there would have been endless analysis of the couple and their compatibility; and comprehensive TV coverage of The Big Day.

Yet I struggled to find anything about the wedding in the Bahrain press beyond a rather stuffy photograph of the groom, his father and his new father-in-law, Shaikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum, the Ruler of Dubai.

Of course, this being the Middle East, weddings are celebrated rather differently with separate, totally segregated, parties for the bride and the groom. Still, even if there was no picture of her, it would have been nice to at least know the bride's name, instead of her being only referred to in the press as "a daughter of Shaikh Mohammed."

Yet even as I felt my feminist hackles rising, I wondered whether - religious requirements aside - there was not some sense in keeping the identity of a Royal bride under wraps these days. The newly married couple will be guaranteed privacy to start their new life together, and the bride will not be constantly hounded by the press, derided for her dress sense, criticised for putting on weight/losing weight/changing her hair and all the other things Diana and her ilk have had to put up with.

And hopefully, she won't end up being pursued by paps and driven to her death in a Parisian tunnel.

Qal'at al-Bahrain

We all need a bolt-hole; somewhere we can go and find breathing space when life gets on top of us. But when you live on an island that is only 48km long and 16km wide, and is in the midst of massive development, such places can be hard to find.

Whenever I need a bit of a breather, I head for Qal'at al-Bahrain on the Kingdom's north coast. Although only a stone's throw from the city of Manama, this World Heritage-listed site transports you to another world.

The site is believed to have been the capital of Dilmun, the ancient civilisation on the island which existed as long ago as 2300 BC. In the 16th century, the Portuguese built the fort you see in the photos to protect their trading routes between India, Africa and Europe.

The site has been beautifully restored and has recently been made even better with the opening of a museum and cafe housed in an innovative building on the water's edge -a perfect spot for morning coffee or even lunch.

There aren't many places in today's Bahrain where you can enjoy views of the coast unpunctuated by high rises and highways. But come here, and you can imagine how Bahrain must have been all those years ago when palm trees were plentiful and the developers hadn't hit town.

Just as long as you don't look too far to your right....

Is this progress? I'm not sure.

The joys of home schooling

Bahrain's education authorities have re-closed the primary schools until 18 October. Swine flu strikes again!

The girls' school is preparing weekly packs so that parents can teach their children at home until schools reopen. In other words, we have had home schooling forced upon us.

While many parents have been venting their spleen in the local press, a lone mother wrote in trying to sound a positive note. We must, said she, view this as an extraordinary opportunity to bond with our children. People should be more positive and start seeing this as a situation where the cup is half full rather than half empty. Coffee mornings and gym sessions should be put on hold for a month while we rally round our offspring.

Stirring words! But maybe she's right, I thought. I've never had the remotest desire to home school, but now that I have no choice, why not at least try to do it with a smile on my face?

We started today. After the first hour, I was finding it very difficult to view my cold, only partially-drunk cafe latte as a cup half full. After a further hour of Olivia's arguing, the only bonding I was interested in was of her lips, tightly together, preferably with super glue.

Only another four days to the weekend! And if anyone reading this home schools, my hat goes off to you - I don't know how you do it.

Double celebration

This weekend was a double celebration in our household: it was our 11th wedding anniversary and the end of Ramadan.

According to a friend of mine, 11 years is your steel anniversary - presumably because that's what you need nerves of to get this far in matrimony.

Neither Ian nor I are very good at remembering our anniversary, but luckily Isabelle and Olivia had elaborate plans in place to make up for our shortcomings. Isabelle ensured Ian was given an anniversary card out of her private hand-made collection on which to write suitable sweet-nothings and Olivia was in cahoots with him to buy flowers and lay a special anniversary dinner table.

Bahrain's preparations for Eid (the holiday at the end of Ramadan) were no less elaborate. Timing is crucial. The start of the three day holiday depends on four criteria being fulfilled. According to the vice-president of the Bahrain Astronomical Society these are:"...first, the moon must be born before the sunset, secondly it must be seen after sunset, thirdly the epoch of the calculations must be at Mecca, and fourthly the moon must be witnessed by people". Yes, I was confused too. For the fourth requirement, Bahrain has an imaginatively-named moon sighting committee.

Quaint as all this moon searching is, it does cause organisational problems. School calendars have entries like "Eid holiday starts - probably", which makes holiday planning a bit tricky.

For Muslims, the holiday is a time for great celebration when family and friends to get together, and wish each other "Eid Mubarak!" (Happy Eid). Children traditionally receive the "Eidiah" - a gift of money - from family, friends and neighbours.

I had a hair appointment on Sunday (the first day of Eid). The salon I use is owned by the daughter of a prominent local businessman and it was full of the females in her family being primped, preened and plucked in preparation for the festivities ahead.

Arab women take their grooming extremely seriously; most of them looked more polished when they entered the salon than I did when I left it. I thought the French and Belgians were beauty addicts - hairdressers in Brussels seem to outnumber all other professions - but Bahraini and Saudi ladies are in a different league. My appointment was at 10am and there was already more Prada and Jimmy Choo in the room than on an Oscar red carpet.

My hairdresser (an Aussie) took great delight in whispering a running who's-who commentary of the great and the good coming into the salon. The anecdote of the morning was the story of the lost watch. Apparently one of these poor ladies had misplaced her timepiece the previous week and thought she may have left it in the salon. It was gold with lots of diamonds - bling is big here - and a gift from her father. Estimated value? BD 14,000 (around GBP 22,700). Not really the sort of item you leave lying around while having your weekly mani-pedi then.

Ramadan Kareem!

The Holy Month of Ramadan, when Muslims believe Allah revealed his Holy law to the Prophet Muhammed, is drawing to a close.

During Ramadan, Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset. The fasting is designed to focus attention on Allah and to bring home the plight of the poor and hungry. The whole pace of the Kingdom changes. People start work later (to allow them to have another nap after taking their breakfast or "Suhoor" at about 4.30am) and finish earlier - around 2pm - because by then they are so exhausted from eating and drinking nothing all day in searing temperatures that the only thing they are fit for is bed.

The fast is broken after the "Maghrib" prayers at sunset. The meal taken at this time is called "Iftar", and traditionally consists of a few dates followed by a wholesome soup or stew. Later in the evening, usually around 9 or 10pm, people meet for a "Ghabga" or "gathering" and a more substantial meal. This is a chance to catch up with friends and family. Mosques offer Iftar in their courtyards, especially for the under-privileged and most companies and societies have some sort of ghabga during the month. Here I am with my friend, Jane, heading off to meet other friends for a ghabga in the Ramadan tent at the Novotel. The buffet was sumptuous with extensive hot and cold mezzahs, biryanis and shawarmas, all washed down with juice or soft drinks (the only downside).

During Ramadan no-one is allowed to serve food or drink during the day (so all the restuarants and coffee shops are closed) and anyone caught eating or drinking in public gets a stern warning from the police. Some poor bloke was arrested last week for lighting a cigarette in public. He claims he forgot it was Ramadan. I have resorted to crouching down in the car for furtive sips of water while out and about.

I find the whole fasting thing amazing. Bahrainis must have incredible willpower. This is not some poxy 2-day detox. This is a whole month. Not everyone fasts, of course. Children, the sick, the elderly, and pregnant or menstruating women are exempted. For others, it is a personal choice. I was visiting an Iraqi friend last week and she offered me a glass of vino at 3pm - which was welcome as we have run out of white wine and no more will be on sale until after Ramadan finishes. Neither she nor her family fast, she told me. Nor do many of her friends. She tried it once when she was in her teens. Never again.

Yet many do fast for the entire month. I overheard a Bahraini woman at the girls' gym class yesterday describing how she was suffering from the most debilitating headaches each day as she was so dehydrated. Although she did not drink anything, she did allow herself to crunch a paracetemol now and again to get through the day.

It's the labourers I really feel for. Stuck out in the heat of the day, they must work without food or drink. Despite not having to work during the two or three hottest hours, I don't know how more of them don't keel over with heatstroke or worse.

Shopping hours also change during Ramadan, with shops closed in the afternoon and then re-opening in the early evening until at least 11pm. Shopping malls are packed until well after midnight, with loads of activities for kids and music and entertainment. All to ensure that everyone has a happy Ramadan - or Ramadan Kareem!

Back to school - at last

School re-opened yesterday. At last. Thankfully the relevant Ministries in Bahrain have not gone the way of those in Oman, where primary schools are now closed until December because of the swine flu epidemic.

The girls were a bit nervous; new school and all that. Here they are in their new uniforms.


By the time we reached their new classrooms, we were all somewhat more disheveled. The humidity was so high that the apparent temperature yesterday was 50 degrees. Yes, 50 degrees! It's hard trying to play the part of the Yummy Mummy when your hair is in frizzy corkscrew curls, your make-up is streaming down your face and you have large wet patches all over your torso.

When I got home (and got changed), I read the story of Fawziya Abdullah Youssef in the local paper. Fawziya was from Yemen. When she was 11, her father married her to a 24-year-old man who works in Saudi Arabia. She has just died giving birth to a stillborn after a difficult delivery. She was 12.

All of which puts into sharp perspective any jitters my girls may have been feeling about their first day at their swanky new private school.

Swine flu fever

Yesterday the girls and I dutifully showed up for the induction at their new school - an hour of meet-the-teacher and learn the rules before the start of school proper today. And the start of term can't come soon enough. It's way too hot to do much outside and there is only so much of Hannah Montana and Disney Channel a mother can take.

As we entered the school building we were leapt upon by Efficient Mummy volunteers aiming thermometers at our foreheads. Swine flu prevention. Anyone with even an inkling of a temperature was refused further access. Anyone deemed OK had a smiley face stamped on their hand accompanied by a cheery "Welcome to St Christophers!"

The girls got smiley faces. I got a fail sticker slapped on my chest and told to stand in a corner until another reading could be taken. It's been a while since I've been sent to the naughty corner. Luckily my friend Anne was there too, so we could giggle conspiratorially in true schoolgirl fashion until an Efficient Mummy re-took our reading.

We passed second-time round. It seems the drive in a stinking hot car coupled with the walk into school in searing heat had been to blame.

Later in the day we received a message from the school. The start of term has been delayed for a week. The youngest kids are to stay away until October. Swine flu prevention. I'm not sure I understand the logic. Will it all have gone away by next Monday?

One thing's for sure - if school doesn't reopen soon, the wards of the local hospitals will be overflowing with mothers on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

RIP Big Brother

Big Brother - we're no longer watching him. At least not in the UK. Although I have to admit I only ever watched part of one episode after a friend in the Netherlands (where the whole fiasco started and one contestant actually gave birth in the house)told me about it. I really couldn't see the point - it was dull, dull, dull!

It now seems that after 11 years the programmers at Channel Four finally agree with me and the show which brought us Jade Goody among others is being axed in favour of comedies, films and dramas. Hurrah - much more up my street!

At its height, the show was screened in nearly 70 countries. In Australia it was so explicit that it was nicknamed "Big Brothel" and the government threatened new censorship laws after a contestant appeared to rub his crotch in a female contestant's face.

Interestingly, there was even an Arab version of the show filmed here in Bahrain. It was called Al-Ra'is (The Boss). 12 contestants, 6 men and 6 women, were put in a purpose built house on Amwaj Island (a swish new housing development).The show had segregated sleeping quarters and men and women were forbidden from visiting each other's bedrooms. There was also a women's lounge, prayer room and a mixed-sex communal area.

But these modifications were not enough to satisfy those who saw the show as a threat to Islam and it was suspended after seven days, following a street protest. "This is entertainment for animals!" declared one female protester.

I have to agree.

Safe, innit?

I flew back from a visit to the UK yesterday. I had a minor altercation with the BA check-in guy at Heathrow Terminal 5 over a particularly heavy suitcase (courtesy of the Amazon booksale).

BA now charge a hefty excess baggage charge for any bag over 23kg, even if your total luggage allowance has not been exceeded. Health and safety of the baggage handlers, don't you know. Although I, a slip of a thing at 8 stone, managed successfully to manoeuvre said suitcase in and out of a car boot and onto the scales, it was too heavy for the blokes out the back. Apparently I should have more bags and expect my 7 year old daughter to lug one of them.

Anyway, in the midst of our discussion, one of BA check-in guy's friends came over, I think, to say goodbye and wish him a pleasant day. The conversation went something like this:

Friend: Yo, bro!
BA guy: Yo, bro, howzit travelling?
Friend: (something incomprehensible)...,innit?
BA guy: Safe, man.
Friend: Yeah, safe, bro, safe.
They embraced. Friend left.

They were speaking English, but I have absolutely no idea what their conversation was about. Still, it was obviously good news, as I got off the excess baggage charge.

Writing tag

This is a writing tag from Anne.
What word do you use too much in your writing?
None in particular, but I do have a tendency to be too wordy and end up having to edit extensively pieces I write.
Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read?
"in time", as in "moment in time". Is there any other sort of moment?
What's your favourite piece of writing (written by you)?
My first published article - a travel piece on Kerala, India. Although a nostalgic choice would be the five-year diary which I kept as a teenager and recently rediscovered.
Regrets, do you have a few? Is there anything you wish you hadn't written?
The odd email, typed in anger, sent in haste and repented at leisure.
How has your writing made a difference?
Studying journalism has made me look at anything and everything I do through new eyes. The most mundane, everyday events now become potential stories.
Favourite words
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt signs in preparation for landing." Music to the ears after a 28 hour journey to Australia with 2 kids.
Least favourite words
"This cream is from our range for the more mature skin."
Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration?
The journalist Helena Frith-Powell, whose light, witty style I hope to emulate.
Writing ambition
To have a travel or lifestyle article published by a UK national newspaper.
Plug:
Keep following the blog for more ins and outs of life in the desert and elsewhere.

The Ashes

Enough said!

Aussie husbands

It's official. According to a recent study by a British academic, Aussies make the worst husbands. This isn't great news - I married one.

Reading the smallprint, I discover that the reason for their low ranking among the 12 countries in the study is that Aussie blokes are really bad at helping out with the housework and child-rearing. I suppose I have to admit, mine's not exactly known for his domestic prowess.

Still, there are surely other considerations when choosing your life partner over and above their ability to do the ironing and change a nappy?

So it is with some optimism that I read the results of another survey in Brisbane's local paper. Around 90% of Australian males believe in true love. Only 54% of Australian females do. Maybe they equate love with laundry skills?

"Isn't that great?" I said to Ian. "The overwhelming majority of Aussie men believe there is such a thing as true love."

"Ah yes," he replied "but you are assuming that the figures apply to a man's love for his wife or girlfriend. Obviously there are loads of other types of true love. True love for the footie, or fishing, or cricket, or beer..."

He didn't get a chance to embellish any further as he was too busy nursing the enormous blow I administered to his right shin.

Still, I am better off than many wives in other societies. In Afganistan, a bill allowing a husband to starve his wife if she refuses to have sex has been published in the official gazette this month and become law.

And all I have to moan about is an unstacked dishwasher.

Downunder Highlights

The annual Aussie pilgrimage is at an end for another year. Here are the highlights (in no particular order):

1. Hand feeding the wild dolphins on Moreton Island. During the 1980's, dolphins started feeding on fish thrown to them by fishermen from the jetty at Tangalooma. To this day, dolphins from the same pod come into shore each evening and can be hand fed under the guidance of marine biologists from the Tangalooma resort. An amazing experience.

2. Main beach at Stradbroke Island. Possibly the best beach in the world, particularly at this time of year (Aussie winter) when there is no-one on it apart from a few surfers at dusk.

3. Toowoomba and the Aussie countryside or bush. This year we visited friends from Zambia who have relocated to the Queensland country town of Toowoomba. This is the view from their new backyard. We hadn't been inland for a number of years and I had forgotten how beautiful the bush is. Olivia (who is working on her Aussie-ness) told us she really liked being in the bushes!

4. Mars, Pepe, Strudel and Curly, the various family pets (voted by Olivia).This is Mars - probably the most indulged and most photographed dog in the world.

5. Going for walks and the kids being able to run free - appreciated enormously since living in Bahrain.

What were your holiday highlights?

The Annual Pilgrimage

July/August each year sees us embarking on the annual pilgrimage Downunder to visit Ian's Brisbane rellies (as they're called here).

The girls and I left last weekend and Ian joins us soon. A bit like the Royal Family, we never all seem to travel together - though I always cop the kids, while Ian travels in splendid isolation.

The girls are now seasoned long distance travellers and relish the fact that this is their one chance each year to fully indulge in their telly-addiction without being chastised. Olivia solemnly informed me before take-off at Abu Dhabi that there were only 11 films she really wanted to see before we touched down in Singapore.

They were brilliant though - not a peep out of them the whole time. The only hiccup was after landing in Brisbane, when it looked like one of the passengers may have swine flu and we would all need to be quarantined. This seemed a bit of a drastic measure for avoiding the in-laws.

Happily the airport doctor allowed us to disembark and we are now safely ensconced at Ian's sister's house in picturesque Shorncliffe awaiting the much-anticipated arrival of the prodigal son on Monday.

To burqa or not to burqa?

That is the question currently being debated in the letters page of our local rag, following Nicholas Sarkozy's recent controversial comments.

I thought it would be interesting to give you some snippets of the debate.

A recent letter claimed the burqa is liberating and that the veil simply covers and guards modesty. It is a symbol of total submission to God, not subjugation to husbands, fathers or society. The same writer went on to claim that actually Muslim women are more free than those in the West, because we literally starve ourselves to fit into skimpy outfits just to look appealing to men. A Muslim woman's image or self-esteem, so the writer claims, is not governed by what men think of her looks, since she is not a commodity for display and pleasure. The burqa covers the body but not a woman's brains.

There was an almost frenzied response to this viewpoint. Muslim women, claimed the burqa-objectors, have very little freedom compared to Western societies. The laws here in Bahrain (and other countries are worse) favour men hands down - no freedom to remove yourself from an abusive marriage, no freedom to retain the rights to children after divorce, no freedom to live alone and make decisions about your own life. Just because Western women do not cover themselves, does not mean they are immoral or immodest.

And so the debate raged on. And in the midst of all this indignation, the iconic King of Pop, Michael Jackson, died. How are these two issues connected? Well, for those of you who didn't know, Michael Jackson made Bahrain his home for a time a few years ago, to escape the furore surrounding him after child abuse allegations. As we all know, he was paranoid about privacy and covering his face in public, and what better means to use than the burqa? Here he is at one of our local shopping malls in 2006. Now that really is wierd..........

Sizzling in the heat

It's official. I have just sweltered through the hottest June since records began in Bahrain 107 years ago. The average temperature was 35.2C and, on June 18th, the mercury rose to a blistering 45.8C.

It's difficult to comprehend how hot this really feels unless you are here - a bit like not being able to appreciate the speed of Andy Roddick's serve unless you had a seat on centre court.

To give you some idea, my June mornings went something like this:

4am - wake up sweltering despite the aircon and with the sun streaming through the gaps in the blackout curtains. Try to go back to sleep.

4.30am - Just nodding off again, when the Mullah has other ideas. I know the call to prayer is supposed to be a peaceful refrain but at that time of the morning it's just not.

5.00am - Garbage truck arrives loudly just outside bedroom window.

5.30am - Give up on sleep. Turn on shower to wait for water to run cold.

5.35am - Give up on cold water and take hot shower under cold tap.

6.30am - Collect paper from garden. Plastic wrapper is practically melting in the heat. Breakfast then do teeth in hot water - YUK!

7.45 am - Drop girls at school. Open door to car and walk into what can only be described as the feeling of a large industrial hairdryer on the highest heat setting blowing sand in your face.

8.00am - Get back to car which is now an ambient 48C. Sweat. Sweat some more.

8.30am - Back home. Take another warm shower under the cold tap and dream of snow.

Wish you were here?

School plays and prizegivings

It's that time of the year again - school reports, prize givings and end of term productions.

Wednesday morning saw the girls partaking in the school production "Be Our Guest" - a seemingly never-ending medley of songs each related to an ingredient for a soup. Olivia was a peperoni, Isabelle a chef. Ian couldn't make it (I'm beginning to think these meetings are just a convenient excuse), but I think the edited video replay was enough.

On Sunday morning I will be at the Gulf Hotel for the end of year prize-giving. Isabelle has beenawarded the Year 4 prize for French and the Year 4 prize for effort in English. And while her older sister wins for trying the most, unfortunately for Olivia there was no category for the being the most trying.....

Weekends and water parks

Last weekend we took a family outing to the Lost Paradise of Dilmun waterpark - or LPOD, to those in the know.

While the girls certainly loved the slides, boat rides and rafts, the most bizarre aspect of the whole day was how LPOD seemed to be Paradise Found to large swathes of local lads in their late teens/early twenties, who congregated there from mid-afternoon.

It was hard to understand the attraction. The rides, while fun, were hardly of the white knuckle variety normally favoured by young blokes, and of course they weren't there to ogle the nubile young local lasses in bikinis, as their religion forbids them from fraternising with the opposite sex and from uncovering in public. In fact the only female bodies on show belonged to expat mothers, like me, well past their prime. And they obviously weren't there for the booze.

All became clearer a bit later on, when the girls wanted a go in the wave pool. We could barely get in for the large groups of Arab youths. Suddenly a DJ at the other end of the pool started up some local pop music at full blast and the lads all began swaying, dancing and singing with each other.

Bizarre as it may seem, this was clearly their answer to a lads' night out and they were loving it. Each to their own..............

The road to Damascus

After our stay in Aleppo, we, like St Paul, were on the road to Damascus - quite literally. Syrian Airlines cancelled our internal flight and we had to drive.

We stayed in a beautifully restored Damascene house, or beit, in the old city. The houses are traditionally built around courtyards with a pool or fountain in the centre (to cool the air), plenty of plants and a shaded area for sitting.

The old city of Damascus is a bustling, vibrant place, with narrow streets and alleyways full of people. And everything is within walking distance - a real treat after Bahrain, where walking is a luxury. And there are some great restaurants serving excellent local food. I did not see one fast food outlet.

Damascus is home to the Great Umayyad Mosque, which according to the official blurb is "the Islamic most

famous mosque", although the Saudis may take issue with that. Non-Muslims are welcome but as a woman you have to dress appropriately, which entails a

visit to the "Putting on Special Clothes Room". You emerge from here clad in a grey-green hooded robe resembling something out of Star Wars. No matter, all the other female tourists look the same.

The mosque certainly provides a haven from the hustle and bustle outside, with cool floors andshaded spots where whole families gather and men snooze. The mosque's site used to be Cathedral of John the Baptist and his head is supposedly buried here. For a time, Muslims and Christians shared the site but the growth of the Muslim faith led to the then Caliph negotiating with the Christians for the church to be ceded and the mosque was constructed.

Damascus has a vast covered souk and streets full of shops selling curios and antiques - wonderful lamps, rugs and old tiles. Syria also has a thriving arts scene with a smattering of galleries and artists studios on the tourist routes.

And after a long day's walking, Kris and I headed over the road from our hotel to the hammam, or bath house. These are all over Damascus and originate from the days when houses had no bathrooms of their own. They are still very popular as a place to meet for a gossip and a wash and massage,with separate hours for men and women.

Behind the rug hanging over the door, we entered a square room with a fountain in the middle and raised benches strewn with rugs and cushions round the outside. Women of all ages and shapes lolled on these in various states of undress. We managed, with the help of sign language, to pay - hammam only. We didn't fancy the scrub and massage. You are given a little towel and expected to don some wooden clogs before negotiating the slippery entrance way to the baths. You soap yourself and sluice yourself with water from the stone basins, using the special hammam bowls (many people bring their own). We then just had a time for a steam before being ushered out as the men were due to arrive. A very communal experience!

Aleppo - Syria

Ian and I are just back from a four day trip to Syria. Despite all the bad press, it is an extremely friendly country - the people were incredibly warm and welcoming. And on the surface at least, it appears to be very tolerant. We saw local women wandering around in tight jeans and strappy tops - something unheard of in the Gulf. And best of all, we enjoyed a glass of wine in street cafes!

Our first stop was Aleppo, in the north of the country. Aleppo is Syria's second city and is famous for its citadel, its souk, its soap and its Agatha Christie connection - she wrote the first part of "Murder on the Orient Express" while staying at the city's Baron Hotel. It is also reputed to have the best food in the country.

The souk is a warren of covered alleyways, selling eveything from drinks to diamonds, carpets to coffee pots and clothes to calves' heads (yes really - vegetarians look away now. UK health and safety would have an apoplectic fit). It dates back hundreds of years and is still the place all Aleppans go to shop.

The Aleppan soap is made from olive oil and bay laurel and is 100% natural. Apparently it was used by several queens of the Middle East. And it's quite a process to make it, with the most expensive soap being aged in much the same way as cheese or wine. Some is stored for 8 years! We were lucky enough to buy some from one of the local factories, although the production season was over - it can only be made in the cooler months or it doesn't set properly.

And once you have finished your wanderings, copy the locals and visit this elaborately-dressed man for a refreshing cup of tea!