20 September 2010

Rules, rules everywhere.

Having spent a fair old chunk of my life in the Middle East, I have always appreciated just how liberal the UK is. Notting Hill Carnival, Glastonbury, the Naked Bike Ride, bonfire night, drinking on trains, smiley Policemen, Vivienne Westwood, Camden, no helmet laws for cyclists, minimal media censorship, proper pints, page three girls.

Being half-Australian, I have also always known that Australia is a conservative place. I was prepared for a distinct lack of British liberalism, but I wasn’t ready for the nannyish mollycoddling that seems to step in time with the conservative-or is that liberal-or perhaps it’s labour thinking here.

You have to wear a helmet to ride a bike, many festivals only sell low beers. Bright yellow road signs that I always read as ‘refugee island’ tell you when there is refuge island, whatever that is, ahead. Drinking alcohol from open vessels is prohibited in public areas, newspapers won’t show much flesh and are choked by legal restrictions. The policemen are scarily fit, almost bionic-looking to the point that they give me the heeby-jeebies. I shall not commit any crimes, ever. The list goes on. I am an adult, surely I can make my own choices about the type of beer I choose to drink.

But no matter how uptight some of the many laws here seem to be, there is one thing that can’t be beaten down by overpowering government interference. And that is the great Aussie barbie. Like every good, solid institution, they are accessible and free: parks are dotted by gas, coal and wood barbeques which are maintained by someone else and paid for indirectly – so painlessly – through tax. They are little beacons of good, clean fun and long may they remain so. Now, if only we could legally crack open a cold beer to enjoy with these freshly barbied steaks, eh…

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Snakes alive // 9 September 2010

Eegads! The creepy crawlies in this neck of the woods are doing their Sunday bestest to more than live up to their world-famous reputations.

On paradisical Moreton Island – a short hop from Brisbane – last weekend, some friends caught a display of mother nature at its procreative sharp end on a tin roof just a few doors away from my Aunt and Uncle’s place (where I was lounging, basking in ignorant bliss).

Mating Morelia pythons, better known as carpet snakes, intertwined in a lolloping, ritualistic spiral. The female is 3 metres long. She, like her mate, constricts around and suffocates her prey. Thanks to Trevor and Sue for having the calm temperament (and, frankly, balls of steel) to remember to film it all…

http://www.vimeo.com/14821704w=600&h=500

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A coming of age // 30 August 2010

Dubai has changed. It’s different, obviously, to the way it was thirteen years ago when I first got to know its waxy, dusty heat and shimmering, folly-laden ambitions.

There are the towers and malls, humming away. And the 4x4s sailing along tarmacked 12-laners. But with every glass-clad new build comes an equally balanced and gradual wearying of the buildings that went before. Older, lesser edifices are fast becoming that bit much more aged and that bit much more part of the city’s background.

As each cloud-cloaked monument to oil teeters precariously heavenwards, the original ex-pat enclaves, full of sleepy, sandy streets and chunky, square villas, are pushed back a little further into obsolescence – and into normality. Well, they are twenty years old, afterall. It’s beginning to feel like a real city, not only where, like other cities, the rich and poor live poles apart and yet on top of each other, but where a middle ‘class’ is swelling, living in areas of town that are looking dog-eared, a bit shabby and past it, but all the more appealing and grounding for it. As time goes on and villas empty, dumped cars multiply at Dubai airport and job markets wobble, the humanness of it – the predictable rise and fall of it all – is gradually making the UAE’s brash party something far more lifelike.

Soon, there’ll be graffiti, petty crime (to complement the dubious activities that already go on) and a quietly bubbling subculture that the Arabian Gulf desperately lacks; once unleashed, the rest will spill ahead at breakneck speed. Dubious ideals come with baggage. And with the shiny skyscrapers come wrinkles on the youthful face of the Gulf.

Abandoned homes and fading near-pasts – images taken in an around an empty, open villa in the shadow of the Burj Dubai last week

Maid’s kitchen

Sir’s kitchen

Plumbing problems

Lonely key

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My Australia blog at the Standard

My new Australia blog has kicked off and is live over at the Evening Standard site. Barring a few banner updates, it’s pretty much rolling as is.

I’ll be documenting my move to sunnier climes, trying and testing new restaurants and bars, interviewing some of the country’s movers and shakers, sampling gigs and festivals and dipping my toes into daily life, from politics to the Ashes.

Please feel free to suggest new ideas to check out and blog about! I now have a new Oz mobile number, too – my ‘Get in touch’ page, above, reveals all.