Dip in Dubai

by Aditha Dissanayake

"Better go early. If all the seats are full you'll have to stand all the way to Dubai" cautions Brother Rad. Someone had told my mother that no meals are served on the flight. She insists I take a box of rice and curry, a spoon to eat it with and a bottle of water.

I manage to convince her that there is only room for the bottle of water in my cloth hold-all brimming with books and pens and a dozen note books. I am flying to Dubai the cheap-way, class-less, frill-less and ticket-less. (The 'ticket' is an A4 size paper with the flight details on it).

My flight, in spite of being cheap, is surprisingly empty. For the first time in my life I have an entire row of seats on a plane all to myself. I sit near the window for awhile, then move to the middle seat, and finally to the one near the aisle when the air-hostess begins to push the food cart towards me.

There had been no warm face towels to freshen me up before the journey as in other flights, but I am given a complimentary cup of water. I barter the voucher I have of 15dhrms and get myself the package breakfast (a fruit yoghurt, a muffin, two slices of cheese and two cream crackers) and a cappuccino. "Enjoy a pleasant trip" says the chief air-hostess on behalf of Captain Abraham and his crew.

This means sleep. Sans the frills, newspapers, magazines, movies, music, up in the clouds there is nothing else to do but snooze.

The landing is surprisingly smooth and by seven-thirty I find myself walking out of the airport after four hours of cloud-crossing, but, to my chagrin not into the open arms of Nirosh, my friend, my idol, the one who is living my day-dreams and the one with whom I'll be spending the new year vacation in the land of deserts, dates, camels and oil rigs.

I am glad of the 200dhrms in my wallet left over from my trip last year with which I buy an Etisalat phone card and call Nirosh on her mobile phone.

"Where are you?" both of us ask at the same time.

"At home/At the airport". We answer together.

"You promised to pick me up" I accuse Nirosh with justifiable anger. Anybody who has been stranded at an airport in a strange country would agree about the agonies of watching all the other passengers on the flight being whisked away by friends and family who greet them with kisses and hugs while you search the faces realizing with increasing alarm that there is no one to meet you.

"I am on my way. Stay where you are". Says Nirosh after apologizing for getting the times muddled. She had thought 7.30 a.m. was my "departure time" from Colombo.

This is the first time I am celebrating the New Year away from home. Trying to create the festive atmosphere that must be going on, back at home, I brandish a broom along the ceiling of Nirosh's two bedroom apartment near the Manama supermarket in Ajman to destroy imaginary cobwebs, imaginary because there are no familiar companions like spiders, cockroaches, ants, mosquitoes or geckos, in this clinically clean surroundings.

Nirosh draws the line when I suggest we wash the floor too, in preparation for the New Year but concedes to have new cat litter in the basin of her three cats, Sir Toby, Lady Doberina and Sudu on the 13th, even though this is not the day to change the litter.

On New Year's Day, we switch on the electric cooker with a clay pot filled with coconut milk on it at the auspicious time. Nirosh's parents call us from New York, mine from Sri Lanka.

Though scattered round the globe, at that moment, all of us are drawn close together thanks to modern technology as we stare at a pot of clay to herald the transition of the sun from Pisces to Aries marking the beginning of a new solar year. My mother had packed fifty kavum and fifty mungkeraly for our new-year table. "Twenty-five for you.

Twenty-five for me" I calculate. Figure conscious and health conscious Nirosh, generously offers me twenty-four each, of her share. This is too much even for my homesick-pallet. We distribute the sweetmeats among our Sri Lankan friends who exclaim at our generosity as if we had given them gifts of gold.

Gold. Off to "Gold Land" in Dubai where I learn the arts of buying gold. The moment you walk into a shop the first question to ask is "What is the selling price of gold today".

Answers vary from shop to shop. (From 43dhrms to 45drhms) Nirosh will then, point to a row of bracelets and ask "Are they twenty-two carat or 18 carat?"

"Twenty-two"

"How much does this weigh?" asks Nirosh picking one from the pile. The salesman places it on a scale and gives the weight.

"How much does it cost?"

The salesman, begins a series of calculations on his calculator and comes up with "340dhrms".

Nirosh raises her eyebrows. "340dhrms for this? How much are you charging for workmanship?"

"60dhrms".

"60" Too much" says Nirosh and begins to walk out of the shop. "O.K. for you, I reduce. 50 for workmanship."

"20" says Nirosh, and mutters under her breath to me "Ganan vadei" (too much). The salesman hears us, grins and says in perfect Sinhala "Labai". (Cheap). The same procedure is repeated at every shop in the Gold souq with me grumbling and willing to pay any amount so as to get it over with, Nirosh, eager and enthusiastic to buy the best bracelet around at a bargain price for "Chooti", the friend who had made the hundred sweetmeats for us.

After finally settling on a bracelet which is "the thing", for 135dhrms, we cross the Dubai creek in a boat and enter the biggest fish market I have seen in my whole life. There are warnings everywhere commanding "undersized" fish should not be soled at any price.

I am amazed at the prices of the dried fish one whole piece of Katta costs only 5dhrms (Rs. 130.00). Nirosh promises to wrap them in tinfoil so that the smell won't come out and insists I take as much dried fish as I can carry to the folks at home.

After an exciting day at Aqua Park where sliding down the spiralling water tubes I learn the taste of death, a trip to Snoopy Island for snorkelling, a stint at the CineStar Cinema watching The Passion of the Christ, and an uncountable number of shawarmas and fifty-phil-chais later, my sojourn in the Middle East comes to an end. I board once more, my "frill-less" flight to Colombo.

I am looking forward to the dust, the heaps of garbage, the flies, the mosquitoes, the familiar weather, my mother's cooking and above all the lush greenery distance sure makes the heart grow fonder.

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