Going to mass in Dubai is a tricky business. As I’ve related in a previous post, the process of travelling from AUD to the conglomeration of Christian churches in Jebel Ali requires a PhD in cartography, a minimum of ten years working experience in light rail transit, a taxi driver’s license, and a Swiss bank account. Seeing as I have none of these attributes, it is nothing short of a miracle that I’ve managed to attend mass twice since I’ve been here.
Last Sunday’s trek began in fine form. Since my initial excursion to St. Francis Parish, I have figured out the local metro system well enough to arrive at the Ibn Battuta Mall station with no hassles. Once there, I took a chance with the bus system, taking the 99 as close to the church as possible. My gamble having paid off, I was feeling pretty confident and enjoyed a lovely service, unconcerned about my return journey.
Ignorance is bliss. Had I known what I was in for over the course of the next few hours, I would have walked the ten miles back to campus. My return quest began at the Jebel Ali Hospital bus stop. Headphones in, I waited for the bus to come along at its scheduled time of 6:55.
You’re probably asking, “Oh, Tom, did you have to wait for a long time?”
Is the Pope Catholic? Do Persian’s work out in sandals?
After a few lunar cycles, the bus arrived. I hopped on and swung into a seat only slightly more comfortable than the concrete block I’d been sitting on while waiting. The first sign of trouble came when we passed the turn that would take us directly to Ibn Battuta Mall. No problem, I thought. Maybe the stop is late in the route and we’ll end up at the station after a few stops. Five minutes later, we were speeding down Sheikh Zayed road towards Abu Dhabi. I began to search my phone for numbers I’d call in case of an emergency.
I could see it in my mind: three hours later, I’d get booted off the bus having reached the last stop. I’d be stranded with little money and no sense of direction and have to find a nice bench to sleep on. I’d get an hour’s rest before being detained for vagrancy and put in the back of a squad car. The rest of my night would be spent in prison. I’d grow a nice beard and shed a few pounds as the months turned into years. Pretty soon, I’d look like Aladdin’s cellmate, hobbling around a cold cell, using a gnarled stick for a cane, crippled from years of malnourishment. Slowly, I’d lose my mind and make friends with my collection of decayed teeth that have fallen out of my head. I’d name them after famous movie stars and have a celebration each time a new one entered the world. An old man, I’d quietly pass away one day, a toothless grin on my face, mourned by my little ceramic friends.
I thought about this prospect as the bus rounded the last of twelve roundabouts, dumping the last passengers off, and coming to a halt a few minutes later at the Jebel Ali Marine Control Tower. The driver swiveled in his seat.
“Last stop, my friend”
He expected me to get off. Hell no, I thought. I knew what would happen if I disembarked. To do so in this strange place meant certain death. I told him where I needed to go.
“The mall,” I said, “Ibn Battuta”
His expression was one of pity and amazement. It’s the same expression the sailors at the end of Castaway had when they discovered Tom Hanks floating on his raft in the middle of the Pacific. I could read the driver’s thought process. Why did this poor idiot ride my bus 90 minutes in the wrong direction when his destination was a mere 5 minutes from where he boarded?
The answer is in the question: I am an idiot.
In a magnificent display of benevolence, he told me the route was restarting (i.e.: we’d back track to the mall) but it would take another hour. If I got off at the next station, he told me, I could hop the F50 which would get me there in 20 minutes. I nodded solemnly and settled in, clinging to the last of my wits.
Sure enough, the next station offered three different F50 busses. As I boarded, I swiped my card for what I hoped would be the last time that night. I plopped down in a seat near the front and checked the time: 8:20. It had been almost two hours since I’d set out and I still had another bus ride as well as a few metro stops in front of me. I put in my headphones again. Staring out the window at the industrial expanse stretching into the night, I reflected. I’d come to Dubai excited for the adventures I’d experience but this wasn’t what I had in mind. By some unfortunate twist, I’d lost all control of my evening. Thinking on this, I realized being in control is something I’ve taken for granted thus far. What did I have control over at the moment? I started small.
I had control over where I sat on the bus.
I had control over the music I was listening to.
I stopped there. Were those really the only things I could think of? Maybe that wasn’t so bad. After all, I was on my way home. Things could have been worse.
I sat back, and put my music on shuffle. I’d be home soon enough.
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