the dubai phenomenon
| January 16, 2009 | Posted by caroline under freeform, on identity, on indian roots, storytelling, travels, Uncategorized |
There are parts of Dubai that have been left to the hands of suspended disbelief, a figure of development, capitalism, juxtaposed against a backdrop of browns, greys, and unending streams of men with the glaze of hard work on their faces. They come in reds and blues, filthied by sewage treatment, desert digging, and 12 hour work shifts. Billboards sparkle above the roads they’ve built, upon which a rickety truck or bus drives them from destination to destination. Their cheeks blackened by smog and tar, they peer at you from their shared windows, and I detract attention from myself as soon as I notice their curiosity, or perhaps hatred. I wonder if they are cursing me in their mother tongue, and I am suddenly very interested in the hands in my lap, neatly manicured by their daughters and sisters. I want to speed so that the symbol of luxury that glints under the desert sun on the back end of the car I’m in will escape the scrutiny of my would-be peers.
Meanwhile, I have found goodness in this city that has been marred by it’s obsession with the biggest and the most expensive. Its skyline floats above a creek, and there are boats nestled at its feet. “Abras”, small passenger rigs meant to cross Bur Dubai with passengers working and living between Deira and the city, cross waters fed by the Indian Ocean daily. This is the Dubai I remember, from my 5yr old love affair with the desert and uncaged animals running through my backyard. Along the rough edges of this burdgeoning cosmopolitan state, or rather, emirate, are cafes that resemble its own authentic Middle Eastern fingerprint on the international scale. The dark wood seating arrangements are warm, toasted by orange glowing coal and the dim lighting that is the trademark of all the cafes and meeting places of the region.
Aboard an “abra” crossing between Deira and Bur Dubai, I see large boats storing people’s lives, clothes hang off the banisters of these dhows, drying under the cool winter sun. I spy a man seated in privacy, watching rays drop with the early evening’s close. He pulls pensively on the pipe of a trusted sheesha. A means of solace, perhaps, he is alone on the boat as line ups of men make their way to the ‘labour camps’, as they’re referred to, to sleep among newfound brothers and friends in the battle to……unfinished
