The Jebel Ali Free Zone Bus Ride of Death

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. 

Big Business in Bur Dubai

For the first time since I have been in Dubai, I ventured into the main part of the city to explore. Our group of eight American students convened outside dorm gates and set out for the metro which would take us to the city’s center. From there, it was a short walk along the waterfront to Bur Dubai, the oldest part of the city.

Bur Dubai looks like Europe as American’s like to think of it, minus all the French people drinking cappuccinos. The kitsch is equally as prevalent in Bur Dubai as it is in Europe but it is decidedly Middle Eastern. Bur Dubai offers more unique fare than Europe’s tacky brass replicas of the Eiffel Tower that look nice when you buy them but not so nice when they add 5 pounds to your 50-pound luggage limit on the return flight. Custom handmade calligraphy can be yours for just a few dirhams as can all manner of textiles and spices. The seemingly sleepy streets belie a plethora of galleries, shops and cafes all tucked quietly away. A favorite of mine, one gallery featured an exhibition of photos by a British Air Wing Commander who was stationed in Dubai in the early 1900’s. The aged black-and-white prints of Bedouins on camelback, rugged laborers hand-pumping water from a well, and mechanics repairing a Sopwith biplane confirmed my suspicion that being posted in Dubai was, for a British Air Wing Commander, about as important as having an impressive collection of doorknobs. While the rusticity of the early 20^th century Arabian desert is charming, and the photos historically valuable, I’m led to believe they were a product of this poor chap’s struggle to maintain sanity amidst the monotony of what was likely the most overlooked outpost in the British Empire at the time.

Our self-led tour (split into two groups, ours being the slower-moving one) continued through the area and eventually, we emerged from the tranquility of the historic neighborhood onto one of Dubai’s busy streets. The prospect of all that neon and commerce so early in the day caused us to duck back into Bur Dubai for one last goodbye at a lovely little art café. Under the cloudless sky, amidst white wicker chairs, displays of handmade art, and nice, comfy cushions for our tired asses, Shawn, Nick, Tara and I ate a delightful lunch. We basked in the calm of the place before venturing back into the foray of Dubai to continue exploring.

The Dubai Museum drew us in and with chins tucked into our chests, we blended into the mob of Italian tourists descending from a hammering and belching over-sized tour bus. The guide, oblivious to our infiltration, handed each of us an admission ticket as we filed past him into the museum. Through an error of calculation, we found ourselves stuck in the middle of the aforementioned Italians. This turned out to be one of the more culturally enlightening experiences I’ve had here. I found that a being in close proximity to a large group of middle-aged Italian people is the approximate equivalent of going to the opera. What people normally pay lots of money for, I got to see for free. In the 30 minutes it took to pass from the museum’s entrance to its exit, I witnessed the entire range of human emotion from love and passion to fear and panic. Arms gesticulated wildly, sometimes causing me to take evasive action at a moment’s notice. Voices rose, fell and soared all over the place. People sang under their breath, and they sung out the names of their friends in the group. They danced out of each other’s way and they danced in surprise when they stumbled over an unseen doorway in the dark exhibit hall. The beauty of the opera attracted almost as much of my attention as the exhibit itself which did its best to explain, in as interesting way as possible, that Dubai used to be a lot of nothing and now is a lot of something.

As any good tourist attraction does, the exhibit spit us out into the gift shop which promptly swallowed up two of our group. A few minutes later, they emerged, gasping for air and we made for the exit, in search of Dubai’s famous souks. Nick directed us to the neighborhood nearby containing the textile souk and soon we were wandering up and down the lanes, lost amidst all that fabric.

For those like me who aren’t familiar with souks, allow me to explain. A souk is a flea market. The Emiratis, conscious of the negative thoughts associated with the term “flea market”, found another, less threatening title that would entice visitors in. Just as a homeowner catches a mouse by luring it with promises of a block of salty, delicious cheddar cheese before springing the pin and robbing the poor mouse of everything he has, the souk draws in unsuspecting tourists with assurances of rich culture and handmade wares before springing the pin and robbing the poor tourist of everything he has. Thus the term, tourist trap.

For every legitimate looking textile shop, there is an equally illegitimate looking place hawking cheap plastic crap, bogus sunglasses, fake purses, and counterfeit watches. The textile vendors are typically businesslike. They sanguinely lean in their shop’s doorway or sit behind a large desk, nodding politely if you make eye contact. The swindlers, on the other hand, holler as you pass, blurt out whatever English phrases they know and generally do everything short of grabbing you by the arm and frog-marching you into their shop. In a bid to confuse tourists, some of the swindlers have opened textile shops. Unsuspecting travelers pass by another harmless fabric store expecting a courteous greeting but instead are told (as I was), “Eh, you need big dress? You will look good in big dress, sir. Come in, try on”.

If you’re confused, see the following:

"Big Dress" according to shopkeepers

Bur Dubai’s final adventure came in the Hindu temple. Dubai is a very diverse city. The range of languages spoken here ranges from Swahili to Swedish and so it comes as no surprise that there is a large population of Hindus living in the city. Amidst the crazy maze of shops, there is a small neighborhood of apartments and shops, occupied and operated by Hindus. The area reflects their culture and hidden away in this labyrinth is a Hindu temple. You’d never know it was there if it wasn’t for the piles of shoes abandoned at various points around the area. These piles are the only clue that an entrance to the temple is nearby and so with a little sleuthing, Nick and I made our way to the gateway. Strategically placed near said entrance was a table laden with plates. Each plate held a banana, a bottle of milk, an orange and some flowers. It was the flowers that tipped me off that this wasn’t lunch, but an offering to take into the temple. Thinking it was the acceptable thing to do, Nick and I bought one, slipped off our shoes and climbed the stairs to the temple.

Up until the time I stepped through the door into the temple, I had visions of a cavernous hall with a large figurine in the center surrounded by the faithful men and women in attendance. Nick and I would solemnly walk forward, bow and respectfully leave our offering at the base of the figure before closing our eyes for a short prayer. We’d take full advantage of the peace in the place and on our way to the exit, we’d pass through the musky incense, past the candles lining the dark, wooden walls and out into the newfound glory of the daytime.

Understandably, that was totally wrong.

My idyllic candles were replaced by harsh fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. The group of faithful kneeling in prayer was replaced by the line of people waiting to talk to a guy behind a counter talking on a cell phone. Instead of an immense figure atop a pedestal, a cross-legged statue of what looked like a bearded Michael Douglas looked over two guys collecting people’s flower petals and tossing them on a pull-wagon covered with a blanket. Bewildered, we shuffled along, intensely aware of how out of place we must have looked and tried our best to mimic the actions of the people in around us. Mirroring the woman in front of us, we handed someone our plate of milk and fruit. At this point, nothing would have surprised me. Had he cracked the bottle of milk open and baptized me with it, I would have reverently bowed my head and tried not to get any in my eyes. Instead, he simply tossed the milk in a barrel, the orange in a box and the banana across the room. Maybe the food was going to the needy. Who knows. Maintaining our policy of keeping a low-profile, Nick and I shuffled into an area near the exit where people were sitting in prayer. We joined them and after a few minutes, rose to our feet, heading for the exit. On the way out, a smiling man with a big beard handed us each a packet of what looked like bird-seed. Doing our best to act like we knew what the hell was going on we smiled and bowed slightly before descending the stairs to the street.

The adventure wasn’t over yet. As I pocketed the birdseed, Nick asked an authoritative looking man what the stuff was for. “To eat. Its sweet”. He said. As we nodded our enlightenment, a woman walked past and handed each of us a sesame ball. I immediately popped mine into my mouth before realizing that maybe it was supposed to be an offering. Just because the packet was supposed to be consumed didn’t mean the sesame ball was. Damn. After all our careful behavior, I may have just blown our cover. Judging by the fact that I wasn't beset upon by enraged Hindus, I don’t think I did anything wrong but maybe they were just too polite to say anything.

Nick and I found Tara and Shawn to tell them about the temple and together, we set out for Deira. The journey started with a 1 dirham abra ride across Dubai Creek. Essential information on the preceding sentence: 1 dirham is about $0.30, an abra is basically a raft with a motor, and Dubai Creek is as about a hundred times bigger than any other creek I’ve seen. The most surprising bit about all this is that the abras are operated by RTA, the UAE’s equivalent of the Department of Transportation. The abras instill all the confidence in a safe ride as letting Stevie Wonder take the wheel on the interstate. They appear so rickety that it seems as if any minute, one will capsize, sending everyone aboard into the water to paddle madly for shore. It’s amazing to me that these are operated by the government.

I could write a novel about our evening in Deira but I’ll just say that it’s the biggest collection of neon and knock-offs outside of Times Square. We navigated the madness for a few hours in search of the famous Afghan kebab house, and once we found what we thought was the right place, learned the real establishment was next door. Of course, we found this out as we were paying for our meal. All Nick’s hard work navigating, for naught. Oh well. We’ll go back someday, I’m sure.