You live your entire life in a country and will never know all of it, even a fraction. Far less so when you travel, visiting a city for just three or four days.
For Westerners, and those who live like Westerners, the typical visitor lands at Dubai International, takes a taxi or private car to a 5 star, then spends the remaining time at the Mall, the Beach, or the hotel’s Dubai size pool. There’s no need to go elsewhere.
But take the Metro and get off at a random stop - not Emirate Towers, the Financial Center, the Dubai Mall, Al Rigga, or those serving the quiet neighborhoods - and you’re likely to stumble on “The Other Dubai.” The Dubai where the workers who serve the privileged live and raise their families.
I suppose Dubai is like Silicon Valley in that respect.
As luck would have it, Pa and I hopped off at one of the “other stations.” Underground, it looked the same,
but stepping outside we were in a land far different from the concrete wonderland a mile away.
It’s not a ghetto, but it’s not the suburbs.
Life is raw there,
and more alive in its immediacy.
The restaurant owner
and shop keeper
live next door or upstairs from their customers.
The men, come prayer time,
congregate together.
And beyond that Dubai is another. The one where non-Arabs live. Those who clean hotel rooms and restrooms, and scrub the floors at the Mall. They come from India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladesh on temporary visas that require them to ride the carousel of go home, return, go home, return, go home when you’re no longer needed.
On the shuttle to the airport the driver asked whether I was departing from Terminal 1 or 3.
I didn’t know so I looked at the confirmation email. No mention of it, so I Googled and learned that most FlyDubai flights are out of Terminal 3.
Pulling up, I checked our boarding pass. Terminal 2. I asked the driver if I could walk to it. I could not. I’d have to take a bus or taxi.
Pa and I were clueless until a young man approached.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Terminal 2,” I said. “Can I walk?”
“You cannot sir. You need to take the bus. The taxi is too expensive.”
He asked if I had a Metro card. I told him I gave it to the young man at the hotel who cleaned our room.
“Follow me.”
I apologized and said I had no money to pay him, but would figure something out.
“No worry, sir.”
He led us to the Metro kiosk where I purchased a card sufficient for the bus. At the bus stop he asked,
“What time does your flight depart?”
“10:20,” I said.
“You won’t make it, sir. Not enough time. You need to take a taxi.”
He grabbed my bag and we followed, getting to know each other on the way.
Tony‘s from Ghana where he trained to weld pipelines for the oil fields. A “recruiter” convinced him to travel to Dubai, a trip that cost him all his savings. There was no job when he arrived.
Tony’s been in Dubai for three years and can’t get out. He’s had other jobs, but like so many temporary workers, gets laid off without notice.
I remembered that I had $400 in 20’s and 50’s tucked away in my bag. We stopped, I gave him a twenty, and we walked on.
Tony sleeps in a small room with four bunks three beds high, spending his nights on a top one as they’re the cheapest. The men in his room pool their money to buy groceries and take turns preparing meals.
Every morning he’s at the airport at 7:00 to see who he can help. He sends two of every three dollars earned to his parents and three sisters back home.
Tony found us a taxi. After introducing us to his friend Nadeem from Pakistan, I gave Tony a fifty and we shook hands. There was nothing else I could do.
On the way to Terminal 2, Nadeem opened up. “Too much money here. Too much greed.
We do all the work yet they treat us like we’re nothing.” The fare was $6.40. I gave Nadeem a twenty.
We got to our gate. A sea of brown faces. Terminal 2, I learned, is for “regional flights” to India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bangladesh.
The shuttle driver, an Arab gentleman, hadn’t told us about Terminal 2. Why would he? I’m a white man from the West.
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