Sunday, June 26, 2005
Dubai-New home-Aug. 28, 2004
“It was a fear of emptiness, fear of the desert. You did not want to cross the desert. All your life, the life of all Americans, is an effort to avoid emptiness. In your country, people work a lot, keep themselves busy, divorce a lot — all to avoid the fear, to forget that we’re born to be alone, that we travel alone, that we die alone. The desert is severe, extreme, ultimate. In the desert we cannot keep from seeing who we are. The desert brings us to our deep selfness.” — anonymous Bedouin, from “The Road to Damascus”
Severe and extreme — two words that rang in my ears as I entered the ultra modern Dubai International Airport after 19 hours of traveling. The third word — alone — came later when I settled in at my hotel apartment of Al Mas in the heart of this city of 1.5 million. Cairo never seemed this big.
The idea of the desert as the final, ultimate challenge is a powerful one. Something so seemingly soft from the air and yet harsh and dangerous up close. To conquer it must feel like beating death.
In Dubai, the desert closes you in at every turn. The Arabs, perhaps fearful themselves, have built every possible distraction to forget where they are.
The little I have seen of the city so far has met my expectations more or less. While Dubai doesn’t resemble any American city I know of, it has managed to out-America us in many ways. The automobile reigns supreme in this dustbowl. The thriving, smelly throngs of people in Cairo are nowhere to be found here.
Shopping centers as Mecca. In some ways it seems like the city grew up around the malls, as opposed to the other way around. Grocery stores on par or better than Publix or Kroger, SUVs and pools, and Chili’s, the Arab choice of favorite American fare.
In other ways it feels very foreign. The diversity is thick. In one day I met an Indian, a South African, a New Zealander, some Brits, an Aussie, a Jordanian and an Irish gal.
The call to prayer in the airport was a familiar and warm sound, reminding me of some of Islam’s comforts.
The mix in clothing styles is refreshing too, from traditional Gulf dishdashas and Eurotrash low-slung trousers to colorful Indian saris.
It’s also clear that the only fighting I will be forced to do in Dubai will be over sales racks. I have already trekked to a grocery store wearing shorts and a tank top. A colleague assured me that the locals have legions of Eastern European prostitutes at their beck and call to sate their needs, so run-of-the-mill Westerners like us are not bothered.
Wish me luck as I begin work this week — and start planning my first desert camping trip. I can’t wait to get out there and touch it.
Severe and extreme — two words that rang in my ears as I entered the ultra modern Dubai International Airport after 19 hours of traveling. The third word — alone — came later when I settled in at my hotel apartment of Al Mas in the heart of this city of 1.5 million. Cairo never seemed this big.
The idea of the desert as the final, ultimate challenge is a powerful one. Something so seemingly soft from the air and yet harsh and dangerous up close. To conquer it must feel like beating death.
In Dubai, the desert closes you in at every turn. The Arabs, perhaps fearful themselves, have built every possible distraction to forget where they are.
The little I have seen of the city so far has met my expectations more or less. While Dubai doesn’t resemble any American city I know of, it has managed to out-America us in many ways. The automobile reigns supreme in this dustbowl. The thriving, smelly throngs of people in Cairo are nowhere to be found here.
Shopping centers as Mecca. In some ways it seems like the city grew up around the malls, as opposed to the other way around. Grocery stores on par or better than Publix or Kroger, SUVs and pools, and Chili’s, the Arab choice of favorite American fare.
In other ways it feels very foreign. The diversity is thick. In one day I met an Indian, a South African, a New Zealander, some Brits, an Aussie, a Jordanian and an Irish gal.
The call to prayer in the airport was a familiar and warm sound, reminding me of some of Islam’s comforts.
The mix in clothing styles is refreshing too, from traditional Gulf dishdashas and Eurotrash low-slung trousers to colorful Indian saris.
It’s also clear that the only fighting I will be forced to do in Dubai will be over sales racks. I have already trekked to a grocery store wearing shorts and a tank top. A colleague assured me that the locals have legions of Eastern European prostitutes at their beck and call to sate their needs, so run-of-the-mill Westerners like us are not bothered.
Wish me luck as I begin work this week — and start planning my first desert camping trip. I can’t wait to get out there and touch it.
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