Romancing the abra

Looking for the magic of the past in one of Dubai's oldest modes of transport :

by Hana Ibrahim

It isn't the safest mode of transport. Nor is it the most comfortable. But it is cheap. You might even say it is relatively quick. However, what draws you to this, dare one say, hoary means of crossing the iconic creek that bisects the bustling emirate of Dubai, is not so much the price or the speed (such as it is), as the sense of romance.

Not the romance of what it is now, but of what it was say, 50 years ago, when the creek was the hub of all activity and the 'abra' (water taxi) was considered 'connectivity king', well almost.

Today, a different 'connection' is king. Those monstrous steel and concrete structures called bridges, so prosaic and convenient to cross over to the other side. Of course thanks to Robert James Waller and 'Madison County', bridges have become romantic icons, but to many (in Dubai) the bridge was always king. After all, it did give a sense of continuity to those driving from one side of the creek to the other, without the inconvenience of having their hair ruffled by gusts of wind.

And today, in a sense, it is the bridges again that draw you to the abra, tweaking your curiosity. The never-ending traffic choking its way across the bridge pretty much tells its own tale. What you want to find out is how have the abras fared in the contiguity of concrete and steel efficiency - several bridges and a tunnel? Not so much in terms of trade and commerce or even modernisation, but in terms of convention, customs and waterfront allure.

Change

The pragmatist in you says it is unfair to expect things to remain unchanged. So much has changed in Dubai over the past 50 years that for the abra-tradition to also have changed is not only logical but inevitable. Yet, the fanciful you wants to hold on to this one bastion of tradition that is so rich with the essence of time, when things were different, when the pace was slower, when people took time off for a chat, when people travelled a few short minutes with their faces in the breeze.... to remain unchanged.

It is in this old tradition that you want to see the romance of the abra. The romance of gliding from one side of the creek to another, while the sun sets in the horizon and a turbaned abra operator croons a ballad about life and love and the creek. Or regale the passengers with tales of the creek.

Of course, you don't know what it was like in the creek 50, even 20 years ago. You don't even know whether the abra-man was turbaned or whether he had the talent to sing one line of a song well. But making your way to the abra stand in Bur Dubai (that has remained relatively unchanged), via the old textile souk and past open stalls where wrinkled old men in pristine white kandooras ignore their exquisite antique merchandise and enjoy cozy chats with others who have equally wrinkled faces, it is not difficult to conjure up your own scenario.

Old men

Perhaps the abras were manned by men like these. Old men who began their career when they were young and carried on, because they knew no other way of life or because they enjoyed what they were doing, or perhaps because they felt it was their duty to uphold a tradition and not let it die.

These were men who knew the creek and its changing moods, but with time saw the creek being pared down to allow the business enclaves on either side to expand, saw the old familiar skyline increase in jagged opulence, saw the creek become busier, crowded, impersonal.... These were men who ferried some of today's big business tycoons when they couldn't afford a car, saw friendship being made and relationships being forged... These men were the kings of the creek, lords of their own little domain. But more, these men were full of history.

It is not hard then, in the grip of this imagination, to imagine yourself stepping onto the abra; one that has been preserved and polished with exquisite care, sitting as close as you can to the turban-clad operator, and listening with rapt attention to the tale he spins about Dubai, back when he was a young boy and the creek was much wider and the ride across was a time out for the mind and the body.

Ah, the power of imagination.

Reality, alas, doesn't always dovetail into fantasy and take flight again. Here, it doesn't even come close to taking first flight. Actually, it doesn't even get off the feet.

Banal

Reality here is banal. Reality here is a chaotic mess of slippery steps and precarious footing, bumping abras and sputtering engines and noise, a whole crescendo of noise, as abra drivers shout themselves hoarse clamouring for attention.There is no sense of romance or history or even nostalgia here.

There are no old men with gnarled hands and furrowed faces etched with the outlines of entrancing tales. And the brief three minutes it takes to cross the creek is no slice of time that can compare to the one your mind desperately conjures up.

Today, what you get is a band of Indian and Bangladeshi men and a handful of Iranians, most of them in their 20s, who operate abras only because they want to make the crossing as fast as possible and only because the earnings are good and the schedules are flexible.

Riding the abra seems more like the mundane layered on mundane. Perhaps there never really was any romance in the abra for anyone to keep it alive. Perhaps they have always been noisy, dangerous and uncomfortable...just a mode of transport.