Dubai

Dubai airport, gate 2

My first and lasting impression of Dubai airport is of air conditioning hanging on by the skin of its teeth. The air is relatively cool on my skin, but it's 'sticky', and I wouldn't want to try anything strenuous. The departure hall is one huge, long gallery, and there are bodies everywhere. Judging by the clothing of my fellow passengers from Heathrow, and the number of them now scattered about the departure lounge, I honestly wonder how many people travel to Dubai, compared to how many people travel through it. It's plainly very hot outside. The 'air-bridge' from the plane felt like it might to walk through an exhaust pipe. The air conditioning was running at full blast, and the air was cool, but the walls radiated heat, and there was that smell of plastic and rubber you only get at airports in arid, hot countries.

I suppose I should have a stab at describing what I expect, then. I'm generally very bad at this – resorting to, 'dunno, really'....

There's certainly a gulf between what I'd like and what I'm realistically expecting. I'd like a man to be standing there with a board with my name clearly printed on it as soon as I walk out of arrivals at Nairobi airport. I expect to have to wander around for at least twenty minutes, before finding someone with a hand-written name scribbled on a piece of paper which might start with the first letter of my surname. The hotel, I reckon, will be a tad above a backpackers' – I think I'll be in a twin room, and it'll be interesting to see just how I meet my room-mate. Hopefully, I'll be on my own. I arrive around two o'clock, I believe, so my plan is to dump my stuff in my room without unpacking, then park myself in the bar to see who happens by. Hopefully Rob will wander in, and hopefully he'll remember me. There are around sixteen of us, I think, but I'm not sure if or how we'll find each other before tomorrow morning. Worst case scenario: Rob, taking a subtle dislike to me in Joberg, has sold me a complete dummy, and I'm on a truck with a totally different guide and twenty OAPs.

I hear Russians. I see Russians. Actually, I saw them before I heard them, and kinda guessed. My goodness, what a lot of gold and black.

I hope it's a fun bunch on the truck. From ages, genders and nationalities, it sounds like a good mix. It doesn't mention profession, IQ or political leanings, though, so I suppose there's always a chance it's a outward bound trip for Down's Syndrome sufferers. I'm sure I'll fit right in.

There's a middle-Eastern chap standing at gate 5 yelling, 'Venice!? Anyone for Venice?! Last call for Venice?!' I guess this is what passes for a PA system here, although it seems rather appropriate that it puts one in mind of a Bedouin Souk. I feel like haggling: 'Venice? You're joking? How about Florence?' or, 'look this lady here', motioning to gate 2, 'is doing me a Nairobi. How about you do me a Nairobi and throw in a Kampala. Then I'll think about it...'

Right, then. They want tickets.