Salut!

Benazir, gold & white cabbies and me

Picture: worz

One brief meeting in Islamabad did not make me a friend of Benazir Bhutto any more than the collective wisdom of 100 or so Pakistani taxi drivers in Abu Dhabi gives me unique insight into the woes of their country.

But I do know both that the world seems a poorer place without Bhutto's passion and eloquence and that only a minority of those cabbies will take the same view.

It is, I suppose, the ultimate straw poll, a survey restricted to the thoughts of a group of men I meet because there is no other way of getting around Abu Dhabi if you do not have private transport.

Almost all the drivers of the rather tatty gold and white cabs appear to be Pakistani. Their English is often limited (though many could talk to you in Hindi, Arabic and Farsi as well as Urdu) and the conversation during a six dirham ride across town tends to follow a formulaic pattern.

The key words, followed in parenthesis by the questions prompting them, are - or were before I came home for Christmas - Pakistan (where are you from?), Peshawar (where in Pakistan?), cricket (which do you like more - football or cricket?), very bad (what do you think of Benazir?), very good...very strong (and Musharraf?).

In the case of Bhutto, several of them would go further, even if they also professed to detest the Taliban. And they are the ones that would have been rejoicing in response to yesterday's news from Rawalpindi.

Where is home?

Bare necessities
Picture: colran

Christmas seems as good a time as any to ask the question.

For the last two months, my unfixed abode has been Abu Dhabi, first in a hotel, then in the unfurnished flat of a colleague-to-be. Student style, I have slept on a mattress on the floor. I did buy a desk and chair, a small fridge and toaster but somehow this has not quite made it seem like home.

For a start, the man from the nearby curtain shop didn't take very well to my suggestion of selling me some cheap material to stick over the windows with tape.

He wanted to put up a rail; I thought that would be a sure way to fall out with colleague-to-be even before he starts work so settled for pages from the Gulf News and Sunderland Echo (pink football edition, sent by a friend though he didn't realise the use I'd find for it).

The office is where I spend most of my time, and even though we are now entering an interesting phase of our plans for the newspaper launch, that is clearly not home either.

In the bleak midwinter.......

Picture: Bill Taylor*

When you are standing on a lawn in shirt sleeves, not even the proximity of Christmas or the bowl of mulled wine on a nearby table brings to mind frosty winds or snow falling snow on snow.

Abu Dhabi in December is hardly a time for wrapping up against the chill, unless you stretch a point and count keeping his and hers accessories, pullover and pashmina, in the office drawers for when the air conditioning reaches shiver level.

Looking at startling blizzard images from home, Neil Vorano, a member of the Canadian contingent in our team preparing a newspaper launch, described himself as "feeling a little wistful".

In Timmins, Northern Ontario, Neil's mother - already concerned lest he should meet "raiders and marauders" on sorties into the desert - may take that as a cue to dispatch a hamper of Maple Leaf goodies, even if it proves impractical to include a few snowballs.

But the rest of us are broadly happy to absorb the sunshine in what everyone tells us is the most glorious period of the Abu Dhabi year.

India (6): the Ganges to Kathmandu

Cheating a bit, I suppose. But since I think this should be the last posting about my recent visit to India, I cannot think of a better place to end than at the top - even if Everest is actually on the border of neighbouring Nepal and Tibet.

Visiting Kathamandu without hiking boots or climbing gear, the must-do activity has to be taking one of the early morning flights to view the magnificent Himalayas. Mine, in a 16-seater Buddha Air plane, everyone beside a window with the bonus of a few seconds in the cockpit, was worth every penny of the £75 ticket.

Taken through an aircraft window, any photograph I produce of Everest is going to be vastly inferior to what you'd find on the cheapest postcard. But I had to post one picture of my own and this is the best I can do.

It was a fitting way to finish off a tiring but completely absorbing holiday. Last stop before Nepal had been Varanasi, with striking sorties in rowing boats on to the Ganges.

By night, people were cremating their dead in keeping with ancient tradition on the ghats lining the river. Next morning they were back, or perhaps hadn't been away in many cases, bathing in the murky waters and even, on occasion, gulping down a few drops.

Our guide said he'd have no problem taking a dip, but would be as ill as any of us if he treated the Ganges as drinkable, holy though it may be.

It was easy to see why Varanasi has always proved a powerful magnet for people in search of spiritual inspiration. Long after George Harrison's sojourn, you see plenty of 2007 equivalents of the hippies and mystics of the late 1960s and 1970s.

So that was our farewell to India. What, apart from Everest, was there to see in Nepal?

The Queen's English

In my new job in Abu Dhabi, I am writing a style guide for a daily newspaper that is due to appear for the first time earlyish in 2008. One of my tasks, as editorial colleagues arrive from disparate geographical and cultural backgrounds, is to encourage them to adopt a uniform approach to the manner in which they write about events in the UAE, region and world.

These duties are not a million miles from part of my last role but one at the Daily Telegraph (or The Daily Telegraph as that paper's style book requires it to be termed on its own pages). My title then is also my title now: executive news editor.

As those three words suggest, it was and is a position with more functions and responsibilities than the enforcement of style rules. But my thoughts returned to such matters when I read an entertaining snippet on the Guardian's online media pages.

The Telegraph, which has lately shown a somewhat cavalier attitude towards its own elegant and perfectly sensible style book, has evidently asked a senior columnist to deliver a stern address to the troops after the most glaring among countless recent lapses.

Let me quote the Guardian item:

Simon Heffer to the rescue! After the Daily Telegraph shamed itself recently by referring to the Queen as HRH and not HM, editor-in-chief Will Lewis has tapped up the Heff to sort things out and appointed him what Telegraph wags are already dubbing "style counsellor". Heffer will address all editorial staff at 11.30am on Wednesday and will concentrate on matters of how to style and forms of address. "Attendance is mandatory" the email warns. Sounds a better idea than relying on Wikipedia, which was Telegraph head of news Chris Evans' helpful suggestion. Is the Heff gonna Shout to the Top? Just watch out for his Ever Changing Moods.

It is not clear whether Heffer's lecture will deal with the grim tabloid devices that have crept into Telegraph news reports under the new regime, which is perhaps unaware that a style book exists.

But some readers, weary of the current obsession with "laid bare" and "described how" constructions, may well be grateful for any small step he can take towards making the paper look once again as if it is the work of grown-ups.

Conrad Black: tabloid justice

Hard time?
Picture: JCDogginit

The sentence of six-and-a-half years in jail for Conrad Black, convicted of swindling the newspaper empire he created, is not as grotesque as had been demanded by American prosecutors. They wanted him to be treated as a serial rapist and effectively locked up for the rest of his days (a term of between 19 and 25 years)

But without doubting for a second that Black is deserving of punishment, which I accept as meaning custodial punishment, I must remain true to my principles and declare that he has been made to suffer disproportionately for his wrongdoings.

Salut!'s more hawkish readers will denounce me afresh as a wishy-washy liberal on penal affairs, someone who opposes imprisonment for anyone, whatever they have done. That is clearly absurd. When I first criticised the prosecution recommendations, I suggested that a sentence of around 30 months would not be unreasonable.

One of my critics, Bill Taylor, defended the clamour for a more preposterous outcome on the grounds that this was simply what prosecutors did, that it was all a sort of game of bargaining and bluster not to be taken too seriously. He confidently predicted a period of imprisonment less severe than what I had accepted would be fair.

In our irreverent little office sweepstake far from the Chicago courtroom, the bids among hacks who, in many cases, had once been employed by Black put the likely outcome at between 18 months and 12 years. My own 10 dirhams went on eight years, not as a personal preference but in acknowledgement of the tabloid streak that guides American sentencing policy.

India (5): sign language

Something for the weekend, sir?........

Not quite the remedy Gandhi had in mind for India's population problem........

Oops. Did they mean me?........

Don't ask if the Times of India headline writer's clueless, too....

100,000 not out

It is not an especially big deal, but it is nevertheless one we are a little bit proud of.

When last I looked, maybe a minute or two ago, Salut! was on 99,983 hits. The remaining 17 may take a few minutes longer but this is clearly the day it is going to happen, not least because while it may already be tonight in Abu Dhabi, it is still today where most of my readers find themselves.

Once again, I thank all who come here, as regular, casual or strays, for their interest. support and, rather less frequently, participation.

Please navigate the site for items that may be worth a look, whether in the archives of Salut! or at the various other locations to which the sidebar columns direct you. There is a lot of good reading out there on the net.

India (4): a flawed peace

"Ah, Varanasi," said the man driving us to New Delhi airport for the flight to the Holy City and its even Holier river, the Ganges. "Such a peaceful place."

No one had thought to tell him that 19 hours earlier, fanatics had killed nine or 10 people in bombings aimed at the court complex there.

India (3): the rocky road from Agra

How many rupees does it take to make a busload of tourists feeling less guilty about trampling all over a school as part of their holiday?

The village of Achhnera was a sudden stop on the bumpy, hair-raising road from Agra to Jaipur.

It was a relief to escape the coach. Indian drivers make use of every inch of road space. This is easier to bear in congested town and city centre traffic, where everyone is moving so slowly that it matters little if there's scarcely the width of a postage stamp between you and the next vehicle or beast. On dodgy highways, there's the added excitement of daredevil overtaking manoeuvres and a worrying approach to speed.

But if the pause briefly made us feel safer, it was difficult not to wonder what right we had to be there in that school, poking our heads around corners, swanning in and out of classrooms and generally making our presence felt.

The kids, of course, saw things differently. It was the high spot of their day, and they clearly loved every minute of our visit.