I met Stephen and his wife Jackie at a
mall, where we had coffee. Stephen and I had not seen each other since 1992,
and I’d never met his wife. It was a flowing and happy discourse,
and from there we continued to a restaurant for Arabic food. Stephen it appeared had kept in touch with
other of our mates from high school, and he brought me up to speed on where
they were and what they were doing. Jackie
and I also got acquainted, and I told her that I’d actually seen her before, in a
picture of their wedding that Steve had sent me over two decades earlier.
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After the meal, we headed north
through Sharjah to the emirate of Raz al Khaimah. I’d stumbled upon a blog online that
spoke of a ghost town abandoned in the 1960s that creaked with interest. I’d suggested it to Stephen. He and Jackie were interested and said they’d
never been, though they’d frequently talked about visiting. Great!
Something new for all of us. We
stepped over fallen fragments of wall, entered courtyards and ducked under low
overhangs. It was fun. The village had been vast, the homes densely
packed together with narrow and uneven walkways between. What fun!
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It was now approaching dusk, and we
sped back south. It was time for me to get to my
Airbnb. It turned out I was being hosted in a garden flat,
part of a home belonging to (or rented by) a man from Portugal and his
family. I checked in, met the maid who would
wash my clothes (gosh, I’d hoped the
washer was in my room)
and then Stephen, Jackie and I headed down to nearby Kite Beach for dinner. I had fish and chips, and another of
those exciting juices I’ve never imagined existed.
Then the day was done.
(Thu, Jan 16)
I woke before sunrise, as I’d been doing most of the time. The Muslim call to prayer came while I stirred my coffee. (In Mario’s garden flat, not only did I have two
towels, but there was also instant coffee and sugar, and a large bottle of
water in the fridge. Oh, an
international electric adaptor was additionally provided.)
I took Stephen’s advice and wandered
back down to the beach to watch the sunrise.
I bought some supplies, dropped them
in my room, and then made my way to the nearest metro station, which was a
30-minute walk. I decided to head into the mouth of
the shiny glass jungle that I’d thus far only seen from a distance. I reached Burj Khalifa Station, where I planned to alight, but decided to
stay on for another stop so as to record the announcements. Then I thought I’d return to gaze up at the world’s
tallest building. However, while I was at the next stop, Stephen called
to say they had finished their morning chores and were ready to meet up. No Khalifa for me! Not to worry. I got back on a train heading further from where I’d come to meet them at yet another mall. As you may have heard about the cities of the UAE, people stay indoors in the summer (with the exception of the afflicted construction and civic services bunch) because the 45-50°C temperatures make the great outdoors absolute torture.
We drove from there to Al Fahidi
Historical District. This is not a true
preserved area, but rather a reconstruction of what used to be the Dubai
townscape. Almost all of the old has
been replaced by the new, and I guess there was a hankering for preservation, which
if impossible, might be achieved through reconstruction. This attempt at savouring a lost tradition
gave me the same feeling I’ve had when international tourists are offered African or
Maori traditional dance performances – cheesy attraction. However, I did enjoy walking around and,
although the edifices were obviously crisp, effort had been made to replicate
with authenticity. We ambled through the
haphazard lanes and happened upon an art gallery.
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Here I heard Arabic music, and I inquired from a woman without
headscarf, who seemed to work there, if there were any CDs on offer. She said no, and was unable to point me in a
direction where I might find some. Of
course, CDs are a thing of the past – everything is available online for easy
download; thing is, I wanted a souvenir, and that seemed like the perfect
choice. She sent me to a tour guide who
was seated while his group ambled. Upon
his head was a red-white Arabic headdress and he was wearing a white robe. In his chiseled, handsome face swam
intoxicating eyes of azure. After
getting momentarily lost there, I asked my question, and his response
was also, sorry, no. As we wandered
about, I heard him communicating with a woman
in German. He’d spoken to me in
English. He surely must also speak
Arabic. Cute, AND a polyglot! Soon we’d taken in all the art, and it was
time to enjoy another lovely Arabic meal.
I tried camel biryani. The meat was not unlike mutton, and I liked it. The biryani part was less tasty than the
South African version.
It was now time to take leave of the
Brits couple and make my way to Abu Dhabi, where I’d meet up with Janice. She is a South African who lived in Taiwan in
my early years there. She’d left Taiwan,
returned to South Africa to qualify as a teacher, and then moved to Abu
Dhabi. In her first two years, she was placed
deep in the desert, in a small village close to the Saudi border. She’d then requested to move to the city,
where she has lived for six years. I arrived there later than
anticipated, which gave us time only to get to the Grand Mosque and enjoy
dinner. The former, Janice told me, was
a monument to the late Sheik Zayed. What
a magnificent edifice! I was as overwhelmed here as I’d been by Sagrada Familia in
2017. The decorative detail is jaw-dropping.
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Janice then treated me to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant on the banks of a river (or inlet from the sea). We enjoyed breads, salad, hummus and kebab, washed down with a beer for me and a glass of white for her. Best of all was the dessert. I finally managed to find kanafeh again, that magnificent sweet I’d first had in Singapore.
That was all we had time for. Janice had invited me to spend the night, and
it might have been possible, but I was nervous about returning the next
day for my flight to Jordan, so we said our goodbyes and I boarded the bus back to Dubai,
arriving home just before midnight. En
route I contacted my host to ask if there
was a chance he could call a cab to take my baggage and me to the metro the
next day. He said he would drive
me. Excellent!
(Fri, Jan
17) The next morning I lazed around in the garden
flat. I felt I’d done enough exploring. As arranged, my Portuguese host drove me to
the metro. In the car were his Macedonian wife
and their four-year-old son, who chimed that he wanted to grow up to be a
fireman. The couple had met, married and
conceived in Angola! She was a
knockout. After being dropped, I headed to Terminal 2 of the
airport. What a fiasco! While I’m sure that Terminals 1 & 3 are
quite modern, spacious and efficient, the one I needed seemed long ago left
behind. Stephen, who is a pilot for
Emirates Airlines, even called it the “dark side.” To make matters worse, it is not comfortably
serviced by public transportation. The
cherry on the top was that Google Maps sent me to the wrong place
completely! Timed from the minute I stepped off the metro, it took an
hour for me to find departures. I was lugging my huge suitcase
along! Oh, well. You see, I was determined to get there without
using a taxi … AND I had six hours to kill.
Rather embarrassingly, on said metro, I got into a carriage reserved for
women and children only. As soon as a
realised my faux pas, I rushed to the next car.
Standing just beyond the inter-carriage vestibule was a bunch of men
leering at the women. It was humorous to me; I’m sure it felt quite disconcerting
to the women.
I’d checked in online, so all I had to do was drop my bag. At first the lady at the counter would not
take it, but then she called her superior, who said it was fine for me to hand
the bag in five hours early. With that
done, I decided to return to the glass
jungle. I’d missed it yesterday when Stephen
and Jackie were ready earlier than I’d anticipated. I returned to the Burj Khalifa stop in
order to get a shot of the iconic tower.
There were so many people milling about the city! I also noticed that there was a
Nando’s in Dubai Mall beside said edifice.
I decided to take lunch there. Sadly, I could not find any escalators that
descended to Lower Ground level, which is where Nando’s is situated, and so I returned to the airport with some
cheap, delicious pies I’d snapped up along the way.
When it was time to board, we were bused across the apron to the
plane. No flight bridge on the “dark
side” then..... On the plane that night,
there were way too many noisy, naughty kids!
In these two Gulf states (Oman & the UAE), I saw no dogs (pet or stray) and only a tiny smattering of
cats. I saw few motorcycles (though those in Dubai were clearly toys for rich machismos) and fewer scooters. On the other hand, souped-up off-road muscle
vehicles were a dime a dozen. This
seemed to me to be at odds with the pious, godly image I’ve always had of staunch Muslim
cultures. From conversations with my
friends in the UAE, I was able to discern that beneath this devout exterior exists
a measure of loose living. I was shocked to hear that couples
divorced. (Actually,
Sultan Qaboos’ first marriage also ended in divorce.)
Homosexuality, I was told both in Dubai and Abu Dhabi, is more prevalent and
evident than I could have imagined. Sexual
relations outside of marriage are also considerably commonplace. Even alcohol consumption among Muslim
nationals is largely ignored. For
example, I learned that it was cheaper to buy liquor at an off-sales (when I was growing up in South Africa, this was the term for a bottle
store attached to a hotel) in Raz al Khaimah, so people would spend the time to drive there to
make a purchase. To get there, one must
cross through the emirate of Sharjah, which I was told enforced their sobriety
laws with more vigour than the surrounding emirates. This wet-run brought about its own set of
issues, and also attracted tricksters to commit blackmail.
In both nations, only nationals can
join the police, the special forces or the military, and only nationals can
hold official positions, including roles such as immigration officers and
decision makers in government. Resident
expats are barred from these jobs. In the UAE, 88.5% of the population is made up of expatriates and immigrants. Only 11.5% is Emirati! These figures remind me of Apartheid South Africa.
