A Tale of Two Cities: Part Two

By the time we returned from the club, it was close to 4:00 in the morning. Our original group of fifteen had dispersed to the point that only my roommate and I returned to campus. In the room, I sat on the bed and reflected on the night’s events. As I relived the club, the ride home, the walk up to the room, and my present state, my thoughts shifted to my plans for the immediate future.

Damn. I’d forgotten. I was leaving for Oman in half an hour.

Plans for the trip had been made well in advance but we hadn’t really discussed them much. The only reminder of the trip was a text message I’d gotten earlier in the evening, determining our ETD of five o’clock a.m. I crammed some things in a backpack, barely conscious of what they were and headed out the door.

Moments later, I was sitting shotgun with Syed in his taxi, going at least 400 miles per hour over the 300 mile per hour speed limit on our way to the bus station. It must have been a good morning for things that defy physics, as Syed’s voice somehow issued forth from the stifling thickness of his beard. He may as well have been speaking to me with a pillow over his face. He was certainly driving like one was.

The sun still wasn’t up when we got to the station. We got tickets and boarded, settling in for the ride. I slept like the dead for a few hours before I was awoken. We’d reached the border and everyone was getting off the bus. I groggily followed suit, bypassing the giddy tourists snapping pictures of one another in front of the “majestic” landscape of hazy rocks rising in the distance. With a sour look on my face, I waited my turn in line, praying for a quick stamp on my passport so I could continue sleeping.

With my passport stamped, I was officially checked out of the UAE. I got on the bus and dozed off. Sweet sleep swept over me for five glorious seconds before I was awoken. Again, everyone was disembarking, this time, bringing their bags with them. Deciding it would be better to join them than attempt to hide in the back of the bus, I dragged myself after the line of travelers.

I should take this opportunity to provide some context for the reader. In the West, the concept of borders has been around for a long time. Native Americans were confounded by the white man’s enthusiasm for fences. For American settlers in the early 1800’s, discussion of property ranked alongside beef jerky and not getting cholera as people’s favorite things. This attitude was brought over from Britain where it has long been a topic of discussion for everyone from William Wallace to Wallace and Gromit. During the Age of Imperialism, Western powers were more than happy to share (read: impose) this structure of property rights on Middle Easterners, to whom the idea was – literally – completely foreign. Thus, it’s no surprise that ‘countries’ is an idea the Middle East is still getting used to.

This was made tangible for me as I got off the bus for the second time in 10 minutes. Bag in hand, I followed the crowd to the long table where guards opened each bag and half-heartedly poked around inside, before handing the luggage back to the traveler. Assuming everyone present (included me) had done this a million times before, the guards waited for our group of travelers to put our bags in a line on the pavement. I overheard someone say this was so the dogs could sniff around for explosives, drugs, porn, democracy, and other-things frowned upon in the Middle East. A moment later, a black lab puppy bounded out from behind the bus and galloped up and down the line of bags, wagging its tail excitedly. I’ve never seen a dog trained for this sort of thing but I’d always imagined a regal looking German Shepherd, the canine equivalent of Johnny Cash, boldly cruising through, sniffing discerningly. Instead, we had Clay Aiken doing the job.

Everyone’s bags passed the inspection and we reboarded. I fell asleep again. That lasted all of five seconds. For the third time, we unloaded, heading for the Omani checkpoint where we’d be stamped into the country. Note that thirty minutes prior, we’d been stamped out of the UAE and we were just now being stamped into Oman. This means for half an hour, we weren’t anywhere. Like I said, they’re still getting this whole border-thing down.

A few hours later, we arrived in Muscat, the capitol of Oman. At first glance, the place didn’t inspire high expectations. I’m unsure what I expected from the place but whatever it was, it wasn’t right there in front of me. Maybe it was because I was tired but my first impression of Oman wasn’t bright. This wasn’t helped by our shyster cab-driver, determined to take us for a ride, literally and figuratively. The hotel we checked into was a total dump. Muscat was off to a bad start and we’d only been there an hour.

Things began to look up quickly though. Our group of seven travelers got lunch and noting the practice of the local patrons, I joined them in eating with my hands. Unlike Dubai, everyone was speaking Arabic. There was no Urdu, Pashtun, or Tagalog floating around, giving the place a much more local feel. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dubai’s diversity but it’s a bit of a surprise when you go several days without seeing a local. Oman was different. Everyone was from Oman. Hell, everyone except us was from Muscat. It was a good indicator. If there were a lot of locals, it must be a nice place to live.

Sparing too much detail, we wandered the souks (flea-market) and took pictures. Shamelessly, we snapped photos, not caring how cliché we looked with our bags and straps hanging all over. All we were missing were fold-up maps and Birkenstocks. Being a port-town, the area we were in - called Mutrah - was accustomed to Westerners. This was made evident through Aziz and Kalpan, a couple of septuagenarian Muscatis. Wandering the street, they waved us over to their table where they were enjoying cups of chai. This is what I had been waiting for: authentic people from the Middle East who wanted to talk to Westerners. Yes, it sounds corny but there’s something about making a connection with a local that makes you feel like less of a tourist. Aziz bought us all chai and for almost an hour, we sat and chatted, most of it in broken English. For the first time since I’d been in the Middle East, I actually got to use my Arabic skills. “Skills” is generous. I attempted to explain that we had two “orfas fee fanookee” (my version of “rooms in our hotel”) for “thalatha benat wa arbaa ibns” (“three girls and four guys”). It was a pitiful attempt but I was finally not speaking English. It felt pretty good.

Before we departed, we got some pictures with our new friends, as well as some wisdom including 1) we all have one God 2) shake hands with someone if you take their picture, and 3) don’t go to Yemen or you’ll be stabbed. Feeling encouraged and enlightened, we set out for our hotel. The group came to a consensus that our hotel was too crummy for our needs and we wanted a new one even if that meant searching for a place after dark. This turned out to be another adventure that introduced us to Aiman.

Aiman is one of approximately 500,000 cab drivers in Muscat. This is surprising as the city’s population is only about 600,000. With the market for taxis as saturated as it is, it isn’t uncommon to see boys of 16 behind the wheel of a late-model Toyota, spinning wildly through roundabouts, honking liberally attempting to attract the attention of potential fares. This system is only sustainable for so long as eventually, everyone in the country will own a taxi, including the royal family as well as newborns.

What set Aiman apart from the other cabbies (like the one from earlier in the day) was his notable lack of swindlerism. He drove us to the wrong place, but didn’t charge us for it. The hotel he recommended wasn’t offering rooms at the price he quoted us, but he didn’t charge us for the detour. In fact, it took 45 minutes of driving around and he didn’t charge us any more than if we’d gone in a straight shot to our final destination. At the hotel, he even helped me negotiate the price for two rooms.

The rest of the evening was calm. We said farewell to Aiman, promising to call him in the morning and went upstairs to relax. For the first time since we’d been in the Middle East, our group could socialize in a private coed environment. Things we take for granted back in the US are not allowed here. One such activity is watching movies with the opposite sex. Of course, we can all shell out thirty dirham and go to the theatre but that means a metro ride and stiff, upright seating. Here in the privacy of our hotel suite, we could splay out on couches, eat what we wanted, talk when we liked, and change the channel as we pleased. It was nice to do that again and we made the most of it.

The next morning, we took off early, hitching a ride with Aiman to the royal palace. There, we promised to call him when we needed a ride to the bus station and began exploring. The palace complex is pretty much what anyone would expect from a country like Oman. Unlike the National Mall in DC, you can see the entirety of the place in about thirty minutes and there are no schoolchildren running about, splashing in the Reflecting Pool. There are no hot-dog vendors and no tour groups with overweight ladies sporting fanny-packs. In fact, the place was mostly empty aside from ourselves.

We wandered around to the back of the palace and were surprised by what we saw. The palace commands 

a surprising piece of real estate at the top of a natural bay. Steep slopes plunge down either side, allowing just enough room for the Royal Yacht Club on one side and a military outpost on the other. The palace is separated from the water by a large patio featuring several bright orange anti-aircraft guns. I couldn’t help but think if they’d ever been used.

For the remainder of the day, we wandered the city, eventually making our way back to the main area near the souks. We called Aiman and rode into the main part of town to catch our bus. In a complete junior-varsity display of responsibility, I managed to misplace my bus pass and had to buy a new one. I’m glad I did as I would have paid $15 for the conversation I had with the man at the ticket office regardless of my need for a ticket. A native Omani, he was an old, wrinkly fellow but his mind was sharp. His English was better than mine and he was well-read on current events, telling me things about California I didn’t even know. It boggled my mind that he was working at a bus station. I’m sure he could’ve taught college courses and I’d only interacted with him for a few minutes.

The bus ride back sucked. I won’t go into detail other than the purgatory of the UAE-Omani border was even more miserable the second-time. I considered asking the driver if I could take the wheel for a few hours just so I could have some more legroom but figured my intent would be lost in translation and I’d be detained as a hijacker.

We made it home weary but I couldn’t sleep just yet. There was a crisis waiting for me.

A Tale of Two Cities: Part One

Some people in the West think the Middle East is completely backwards. Arabic script, which is read from right to left, reinforces this idea nicely. Of course, the argument works in reverse too. I’m sure my Arabic friends had a good laugh as children when they learned that English is read from left to right.

So where does this leave us? Who has it right?

If you’re the touchy-feely post-modern type, you’ll say neither, both are equally correct. Conversely, if you’re the Grouch from Sesame Street, you’ll say that both are wrong. Granted, if you’re the Grouch, you’re probably too busy rooting through trash and criticizing Ernie and Bert’s lifestyle choice to care, but that’s a topic for another day.

From what I’ve seen during my short time in the Middle East, I’m throwing my vote in with the Arab world as the backwards ones. Now, before you label me an insensitive hedonistic Western pig, walk a mile in my cheap Chinese sandals.

The short version goes like this:

In the span of six hours, I went from one of the Middle East’s (and possibly the world’s) swankiest nightclubs to the region’s closest approximation of Des Moines, Iowa.

The long version goes like this:

On Thursday night, my roommate and I went to a friend’s flat in Dubai’s Marina. His place in itself is swanky, as any 33^rd floor apartment with a balcony and city view’s is expected to be. There, we prepared to go out for the night. Rumors were swirling around that we’d be going to a very nice club but I don’t put much stock in rumors, so as not to be disappointed when they don’t come true. In this particular case, however, I should have prepared for what was coming. Eventually, it became clear that we were, in fact, going to the swanky club and were expected to dress to impress.

I was not dressed to impress.

Had I walked down San Diego’s C Street during the right time of day, people would’ve thrown me spare change. My wrinkled khakis and borrowed shirt weren’t even the worst part. I haven’t had a haircut in a while and the scraggly fortnight beard I’ve got going isn’t doing me any favors either. Rodney Dangerfield once said, “Ya go downtown lookin’ like that, ya get a free bowl of soup”. Yep, that was me.

With this in mind, you can understand my concern when we arrived at the club. As it turns out, the place is in the basement of a hotel which occupies the first 30 floors of a skyscraper. The hotel is the Armani Hotel and the skyscraper is the Burj Khalifa (the world’s tallest building. You may have heard of it). The club, as well as the hotel, is owned and operated by Georgio Armani. According to the club’s Facebook page:

“Armani’s signature style is evident throughout, best reflected in the always-glamorous crowd of the most exclusive guests radiating an elegant class, creating the exciting international ambiance that fills every corner of the club.”

Classy doesn’t really capture it. There were a few Maybachs and Ferraris in the valet area, if that helps.

The rest of the group arrived and we headed for the door. At this point, all the scheming I had done was beginning to grow faint and I resigned myself to fate. Getting turned away for looking like a slob became a very distinct possibility. It didn’t matter if I went in the front of the group, hoping the first few would be ushered in quickly so as not to hold up the line, or the back of the group so as to spare myself from embarrassment in front of friends. If I kept my head down and went in the middle, my chances were no better. It’s hard to blend in with a bunch of Brads and Angelinas when you look like Joaquin Phoenix.

Joaquin Phoenix could hardly get into a public restroom, let alone Armani Prive.

Contrary to popular belief, the Age of Miracles is not over. In a stroke of divine intervention, God reached down to earth and shielded the bouncer’s eyes to my appearance and like a thief in the night, I hustled into the club. I could hardly believe my good fortune. Riff-raff like me had infiltrated the world’s most stylish nightclub. Designer suits and cocktail dresses brushed past me as I smugly reflected on the fact that I got my belt at Ross Dress for Less for eight bucks. I’d beaten the system.

We had our fun, dancing and taking in the scene around us. Our eclectic group of Italians, Iranians, Germans, and an American, took in the pulsating beats that accompanied flashing LED’s from the 3-story full-wall display. Until 3:00 in the morning, we bounced and bobbed to the beats, incredulous at the fact that we were partying with the closest thing there is to professional clubbers. Stunning waitresses swept across the room, bringing six-liter bottles of Belvedere to important looking men surrounded by snooty looking women.

When the lights came up, and the music died down, those who remained in the club reluctantly headed for the door. There were no long faces. For all the snobbery of partying in the world’s glitziest nightclub, there was an inescapable joy. Sure, it was just another day in the life for some people but for me, it was a memorable experience I was excited to share. As we waited for our ride outside, my eyes were drawn up the 160-some floors of the building we’d emerged from. Scanning from the ground floor to the top of the tower, my eyes continued upwards into the night sky. Things had turned out pretty well, I thought. Thank heavens.