Sinbad and the Muscateers.

Ever read Treasure Island?

If you like a good yarr-n, this is the buccaneer of them – Bobby Louis Stevenson’s efficient masterpiece of pirate duplicity and buried dubloons. It’s fab.

Of course, the date palms I must confess to have been lazing under while reading it are half a world away from young Jim Hawkins’ Carrabean adventure. More than half, if you’re counting cultures and centuries. But it’s still a ripping good tale for a holiday read, I must say.

Not that we’ve been on holiday, you understand. We’ve been fortifying friends in foreign climes with the hearty encouragement of contact with home. A kind of solemn missionary trip if you will. Until this evening after dinner anyway, when we fly back to the UK and I have to give up the mango guzzling and daytime snoozing and casual afternoon G&Ts.;

>takes a clinkly sip<

—

Now, if you like lands of adventure and swashbuckling tales of history, let’s face it – you really ought to be at least intrigued by the Middle East. It is, in a way, one enormous, exotic yarn – repleat with fables and heros and ancient peoples and lost treasures and the kinds of utterly serious human struggles we might only be able to comprehend in colourful, posterised, simplified storytelling.

From the Atlantic coast to the silk routes into China, all the great civilisations of formative history played out their evolving naratives somewhere here. And their various intertwining plots spider across the world political map today.

The little island of Bahrain is certainly a real crossroads of many routes and a crucible of many stories. People find themselves here for all manner of reasons, like so many islands. But it can feel a little unreal, like an airport lounge.

The mix of ex-patriate business life – with the comings and goings of G&T-clinking; westerners posted to the regional arms of big financial businesses – and local Islamic life – where Bahrainis and Saudis retain an apparently unchanging and graphically different social outlook – is the macro juxtaposition here and it makes for a lot of fuzzy logic. Things work, even though they sound like they shouldn’t, and even though they may not work with planned efficiency.

But both of these worlds can independently seem suspended somehow, accademic, against the realities of heat and work and place.

A mosque tract can read as smartly optimistic and ordered, as neat and tidy, as a business brochure. Both paint a positive picture of humans in a can-do world, placed into their rightful setting where everything makes sense and we all operate in predictably purposeful ways.

And in the Gulf in particular – where international business is really seated for the Arab world – the glossy stock imagery that these two outlooks market with seem to come very smoothly together.

—

It does work. The human level wins out and makes things work; Saudis stream over the Causeway to watch movies in the cinemas and to go to bars, and westerners learn a bit of respect and perhaps glimpse another way of life beyond the office. And everyone gets to trade.

It’s all largely thanks to the largely friendly, easy-going approach of the Bahrainis – the sons and daughters of traders and pearl divers.

Yet, the country that’s struck me as the most realistically positive on this trip to the GCC is one that sounds the most evocative – the land of Sinbad himself, Oman.

—

I won’t give the details of the Chedi Hotel in Muscat. Suffice to say, it is the most decadent stay I’ve ever found myself having and the most creative deal I think Julian could posibly have blagged for us to get away with enjoying. I was sure they began to suspect we shouldn’t have been there by day three.

It’s a luxury oasis that is as unrealistic a cocoon from ordinary life as you could wish for on a break. And, like all international resorts, almost totally unreflective of it’s geographical location. Could have been anywhere.

But it wasn’t anywhere. It was in Muscat. And the glimpse we got of the city, walking through the spicy, aromatic heat of the forty-two-degree evening waterfront or cruising along the sweeping efficiency of its mountain roads out of town, we found ourselves talking to elegant, friendly people who seemed charged with identity and purpose, even in the humid blast of southern Arabia.

It’s largely thanks to Sultan Qaboos ibn Sa’id, a dashing figure in his youth who took over the country the year I was born and immediately rebranded Oman to a more open and perhaps poetic sense of identity; building roads, instigating greater trade and tourism, inculcating real pride in his people. He reigns still. And Omanis seem to act like real sons of Sinbad – dashing, in their crisp, tailored, white thobes and neat, patterned, circular kuma hats. Muslims, but with a sense of some extra adventure about them.

We joked about the possible collective noun for people living in Muscat; sea port stretching along the coast against the mountains, overlooking the vital straights into the rest of the Gulf. And they really are known as Muscateers.

I can only say this as I finish my lazy gin and tonic and prepare to leave: if Oman isn’t currently on your map, mark it on there now. From my flying visit I feel sure it is a land of many buried treasures.

Archepedalo.

If there’s one thing we can attest to, it’s that Bahrain is not for the pedestrian.

This isn’t news. Most emerging cities in the Middle East are built on a very twentieth century principle, and for a blindingly obvious and unassailable reason – the car and oil. Duh.

To underscore it, I’ll say simply that when I filled up our modestly-powered runabout just before we left our windy-wet shores, it cost me fifty quid. Julian mentioned casually as we were cruising through the shifting shining panorama of Manama yesterday that he’d just filled his umpteen-litre gas guzzler for less than a tenner.

So pavements lead nowhere, buses are a kind of parked billboard system and people in coffee shops in the more exclusive island developments have no concept of where to find a number for a taxi here.

—

We do this everywhere we go. We wander instinctively and end up always at some point in some nameless back road with locals leaning in doorways casually eyeing the purposeful and conspicuously English-looking couple striding confidently towards the iron smelting plant/canal/industrial car park. But we feel we’ve seen the real wherever as a result. The unromantic, boring, foot-wearing, passing-pity-inducing real wherever.

But, there’s nothing like treading out the real footprint of a place. Which I do largely mean. Now that I’ve made it back and had a shower.

Given that our trip out here is more of a visit to chums than a dreamy holiday, we’re pretty happy to wander between places with no real itinerary. Although it’s a bitter irony to Jules that he’s landed a lot of all-hours appointments with work the very moment his chums arrive to see him, having had rather more space to be sociable up until now.

Still, work is work and Bahrain is intriguing, whoever we’re with.

Plus his ‘work’ is directing photo shoots of F16s, Gazelle helicopters and the King’s eye-wateringly luxurious personal 747s, so I’m not sure his feelings are single-mindedly missing our company. Jammy swine.

—

What we can also attest to after today is that Dilmun was a trading nation for some three thousand years, its paraditical identity surviving the influence of pushy investors no less significant than the Assyrians, the Babsters and the Messy-potamers, until self promotion monster Alex ‘the just great, y’know’ rebranded them to Tylos, about three hundred years before Christ. And he didn’t even go there. Those Greek egotists. Bet he’d had his teeth done.

Anyway, modern Bahrain owes a very great deal to the black gold discovered only eighty-odd years ago here. And to the shadow of the great Arab homeland looming behind it. But despite the now-physical connection to a giant desert land with no cinemas or alchohol, thousands of weekend visitors from Saudi stream over the causway because of its decidedly laid-back approach to its Islamic identity.

As a result, the country has become a centre of international business in the region and some 40% of Bahrain’s population is ex-patriate. So bars and cinemas and Innocent smoothies in local supermarkets are all a normal part of life here. Just like the motor car. Plus the American fifth fleet is based here, so Blackhawks shuttle to and fro along the shimmering coast every day. No idea what they cost to run. Perhaps cheap enough for anyone to rent one.

But the cheapest way to get around would have to be one of the most practical too, and one suggested in an unintentional malapropal moment by Caroline.

“Bahrain is an archepedalo, isn’t it?” she said, when we arrived.

“That’s right, ” I nodded knowingly, “everyone wisely shuttles between the islands by self-powered pleasure boats.”

Having found ourselves whisked off to the water’s edge outside Julian’s flat, the night we arrived, bobbing around in the middle of the glass-flat lagoon being assailed by flying fish a mere hour after landing in the balmy darkness, I can attest to the sense of adopting padalos or kayaks as a means of getting around here.

It took us a brisk 25mins to cross to the neighbouring island for a Costa Americano this morning, striding through the seering heat and brickdust of a building site residence; it took us a casual five minutes to cross the water to it at drifting speed that first night.

Not sure anyone would listen to us, however. Think if we approached the security men on the gates at Tila island with kayaks and said: “You chaps should really TRY these babies…” they would look no less incredulous than when we asked them if they could point us to the nearest public transport.

My feet hurt.

Arse and soul.

If you spend any of your time mucking about with matters creative, even as a self-confessed amateur, enthusiast or garden shed hobbyist, you will sooner or later be tempted by the demon of derision.

Taste is a matter of taste. But if you consider yourself to have it, you will also be very aware of who doesn’t.

As you develop any kind of confidence at your craft – by week three of your pottery class, for example – you will begin to feel an instinct to voice the odd confident remark. The remarks of judgement. Things like: “That pot’s crap, Dave. What were you thinking, you idiot. Looks like a child did it.” And so forth. You’ve been there.

And so have I. I have to rein in this veritable beast of momentary certainty every day. I can’t helping looking at, well, everything, and trying not to despair that I wasn’t consulted. It’s such a burden being a creative sometimes, it is.

Of course, it’s one thing to rediscover disbelief and incredulity at the Eurovision song contest each year, or to wonder how no-one in this week’s losing Apprentice team couldn’t see how risibly poor the layout of their posters was. The maddening propensity of local British business to reach for the typeface Brush Script when designing a shop front is something that gives me indegestion and migrane from grinding my teeth… but most people are largely unaffected by these things. Beyond the scope of their respective creative jobs, these items are largely – dare I say it? – cosmetic.

But if there’s one thing that to me rather matters, one creative medium we should all be pressuring our councils and our friends who are developers and our blummen’ MPs more about, if I had to sacrifice my Lyn Truss Mega-Wedge-Tip Emergency Apostrophe Maker for one truly worthy creative critical cause… it’s archetecture. Buildings. Your very environment.

For, the canvas of the archetect is the rest of your chuffing life, mate.

We have to LIVE with the epic lack of wellbeing created by most of the business compromises dotting our high street. Walk past them, around them, under them – dear Lord, into them – every day of our lives. Their massive brooding presence creates just that – presence in our outlook. Casting shadows or light. Making our journey to here and there easy or hard, uplifting or depressing.

Buildings won’t go away. You’re not allowed to just blow them up. I’ve asked.

And so it is in this high-minded spirit of condecending frustration, utterly un-schooled or qualified but bloody right, obviously, that I share this link with you. I am not proud that this will take you to a page of the Daily Mail. I will attempt to apologise for this another time. But look at the pictures and weep. If your soul can stand it:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1180949/From-bargain-bin-store-bingo-hall-sad-fate-Odeon-popcorn-palaces.html

The vein in my head is throbbing again, dear.

I think it means that another tiny but important part of me has died.

No jokes. Seriously good.

So, I won’t labour the point. All you need to know is… it was worth the wait. The long wait. It was very much worth it.

At one point, half way through, I thought to myself: “Cripes, it’s actually even better than I hoped it could be.”

Really. Ish.

Ish?

Well, the impact in the cinema is a mighty wallop.Most pleasingly, Mr Abrams makes a point of frequently teaching you his new language for Star Trek – that it is a new one. The way he’ll scrape a camera along a spaceship or zoom in on some battered shuttle skid or a let the kitchen spot lights all over the bridge of the Enterprise bleed atmospherically all over the lens – he’s saying very pointedly: “This is visceral, mate, innit?”

Lots of nice touches everywhere. Lots of details to bring it to life and to nod to classic Trek. Lots of entertaining amusing things and entertaining exploding things and a whole heck of a lot of trying to make it feel more like Star Wars. And no one lets down the cast. Even Scotty’s accent.

I cheered at Bones. He was the star of the characters for me. But Spock’s wig didn’t detract in the end and Kirk is completely likeable as a lead; not annoyingly pretty. Though he is.

Of course, the end is usually a let down from the beginning. It all got a little too neatly wrapped up and Getting The Gang Together – almost too hasty an edit, to ensure it was punchy. And they did a clever amount of stuff in two hours. But it really could have been an extra ten or even twenty minutes long and left a couple more thoughtful emotional transitions in it. In the cold light of day, forced to criticise it, I’d say that. Simply because it was so chuffing GOOD. It’s own bench mark was very high.

Of course, it’s still Star Trek. It’s brilliant fun. But does the Star Trek world still make sense now? Not 100% sure. ..But, like, who cares?

The way they literally ‘re-boot’ things is jolly clever for all the writers, but it might grate with fans once they calm down. But it makes sense.

And my final actual criticism – perhaps my only one – is the score. Very Saturday morning picture show. And as romantic as that description sounds, the music is simply unsubtle. Not nearly as subtle as the film. It lacks emotional nuance – and there are no beautiful set themes. It’s bordering on the poor, in the context of this outstanding film.

James Horner’s work for the second two Trek movies, back in the day, is the very best of cinematic space music – vast, but intimate. Poised. Downright moving in places, without being obvious or hokey.

I feel a heel saying it, but Michael Giacchino’s score is emotionally flat. Which is a great shame, as his work on Lost is classy stuff – stylistically distinctive and a perfect fit for the show. This did all the competent orchestral stuff but was wallpaper. Sorry, Mike – JJ might have over-directed you there.

The piece of music they used on the third outstanding trailer was less intricate than Horner’s work but as an emotional motif that simply built up, it was great – but it didn’t seem to appear in the film. It was very direct emotionally and would have been a good take-home musical connection.

But for example, when we saw the Enterprise for the first time, there was no romance, no mystery, no otherworldlyness, no… wonder. Just wallop. Just Ooh Isn’t It Dramatic This Big Spaceship stuff. Music I’ve forgotten.

So, a gripe. But only because the film sets such a high standard.

Can’t wait to go see it again, obviously.

Space and time.

So here’s a genuine question. Why does time slow down when you exercise?

I don’t just mean, why does an hour in the gym seem like a lifetime? I mean, why does your – or at least my – perception of time literally, well, slow down?

Know how I know?

Because I know that iPods don’t run down amusingly like old Walkmans.

It’s something I’ve actually noticed many times after doing a circuits class; you get to the car, purple and dizzy, trying not to clutch your chest or fall over before you close the door, the track on the CD picks up where it left off and… it’s playing slower. Except, it can’t be – it’s a CD. Isn’t it?

Lastnight, this phenomewhatsit struck home as I limped home from a run. Mad, flab-chap that I am. The tunes on the iPod were beginning to run so much slower in tempo I could almost drive a bus between the BPM. ..BUT IT’S A CHUFFING iPOD!

How much gravity am I displacing when I try to move my bulk? Am I bending Mr Einstein’s continuum that much with a bit of tummy chub?

—

Of course, if I’m going to get all exercised about the space/time wotnot today, it’s for a good reason. For today is… T-day.

Trek day.

..STARTREKDAY!

At last. And I should be more excited than my capitals and exclaimation mark imply I am. And I am, obviously; I’m expecting the world from this flick. But when I shook the To Do list earlier in the week, lots of annoying little bits fell out all over the desk. And I’m trying to clear them up before going boldly out.

..Oh dear. You see, that’s how it starts. One little Trek slip; one little reference to some part of this brand’s gigantic cannon of cultural references. And before you know it – you’re falling back on some of the most tiresome jokes in newspaper review history. Shan’t be doing that.

Not until tomorrow, when I write my review, anyway – when we shall see if the franchise re-boot really is set to stun.

I.. I need a sit down.