360 Degrees Longitude (22 page)

October 13–October 18
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

“
B
reakfast is until four? That's nice, we can sleep in and still eat.” We reached our hostel near the Dubai airport just before 2:00 a.m., and the price included breakfast. The receptionist was in the process of explaining breakfast hours, but the gravity of what he was saying didn't make it past the throbbing temples that result from sitting on a plane for several hours.

“Oh no, sir,” the receptionist replied. “Breakfast begins in just a few minutes, and continues for only two hours until 4:00 a.m. If you want to sleep in, I suggest you get your breakfast…”

I stood rooted to the spot, swaying slightly, trying to process this information. Ah, yes. Humor. He was making a joke. That's okay, I can do humor, even with a 20-pound headache.

“… now. Breakfast hours have been moved up to accommodate the Ramadan fast. You
are
aware that Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset during the holy month of Ramadan?”

He wasn't joking. We were given our meal tickets and were escorted to the cafeteria, where, at 2:00 a.m., we found many people dressed in white robes, reading newspapers and eating their breakfasts.

Not surprisingly, none of us felt much like eating. We collected our breakfast and took it to our room so we could enjoy it cold and stale after we woke up.

• • •

“Trust me.”

Those were the words uttered by a well-traveled friend in California when he was trying to convince us to stay a few days in Dubai instead of just making a plane connection on our way to Africa. “If you don't believe me,” he continued, “just type ‘Dubai water park' into the Google search box and then click ‘I'm Feeling Lucky.'“

Our ersatz travel agent had been trying to convince us that Dubai had the world's best water park, and that we should pay it a visit, but a layover there made me nervous. “Don't they paint a bull's-eye on the forehead of every American as part of clearing customs?” I asked.

“It's not like that at all. Trust me.”

So, we did.

The promise of the world's best water park brought us to Dubai, yet nothing was more important to the survival of our little troupe's emotional health than going to Chili's. Yes. That Chili's.

You must understand that the “molten chocolate cake” from Chili's is a necessary dietary component. We knew at the outset it would be one of the things we missed most during our travels. A few days before we stepped on the plane to Iceland we were having what we thought would be our last molten chocolate cake for an entire year.

“I have a bit of news,” September announced. “I did some research on Chili's locations worldwide and compared the list to our itinerary.”

Spoons stopped in midair. Everyone held their breath.

“There's a Chili's in Dubai. In fact, there are two.”

Of course we hadn't thought of Ramadan. In Turkey we knew that the devout were fasting but businesses still conformed to normal hours and practices. In Dubai, Ramadan ruled our existence.

Having our priorities in order, on our first day in Dubai we arose, passed on the stale breakfast from the previous night, did the homework ritual, and then took a bus straight to Chili's at the Deira City Center mall. The bus was mercifully air-conditioned, but September was compelled to sit in the front, where she and the rest of the adult women were walled off from view. Since September couldn't see me and the kids, I just hoped we would all get off at the same bus stop.

Luckily, the mall was massive and there was no mistaking the stop. Stepping off the bus, Jordan remarked, “There's nothing wrong with chocolate cake for breakfast. It's loaded with milk, eggs, and flour—just like scrambled eggs and toast, only different.”

A large portion of the population in Dubai are immigrants, imported to fuel the explosive growth in the area. As in much of the world, English is the second language widely used. Luckily for us, this meant most signs were posted in both Arabic and English.

Even without the aid of being posted in our native tongue, there was no mistaking the familiar Chili's logo on the map by the mall's entrance. Jordan and I ran ahead while September and Katrina did a bit of window shopping en route. A few moments later we were looking at the darkened interior of Chili's.

“There will be no chocolate cake for breakfast today,” I announced to September and Katrina when they finally caught up. “The sign says it is closed for Ramadan. It will open later after sunset.”

“Then what are we going to do for breakfast?” Katrina asked.

“It's actually almost lunchtime. I saw a food court on the mall's map,” September said

We followed September a while and consulted a sign or two along the way. Eventually we made it to the food court. It seemed that every major fast food chain on the planet was represented, but the food court was dark and virtually deserted. We wound our way past Cinnabon, Baskin-Robbins, Starbucks, McDonald's, KFC. By their dress, it was apparent that half the people wandering around in the mall were European or Hindi who were surely hungry at lunchtime. But everything was shuttered for Ramadan.

“I'm hungry,” Jordan stated. None of us had eaten since the flight from Istanbul.

“We knew sooner or later we would have to go hungry,” I responded. “We may have to tough it out until tonight.”

“I think I hear something,” September said.

Faint voices were coming from the rear of the massive food court. Katrina and Jordan went toward the voices, then called back, “There's a Subway open!”

As we stood in line we found it was open
only
for take-out. The tables in the center of the food court were all roped off and there was a guard posted to be sure they stayed that way.

I perused the menu. “Hey!” I said, “the ham and bacon are missing!” Nor was there any sign of a roast beef sandwich or a BLT. In their stead were roast chicken sandwiches, teriyaki chicken sandwiches, chicken salad sandwiches …

“In a place where the Muslim locals don't eat pigs and the imported Hindus don't eat cows,” September noted, “Dubai is clearly a
very
dangerous place to be a chicken!”

We ordered our take-out food and then tried to find a place we could eat without being busted by mall security. “We could eat in the restroom stalls,” I suggested.

“I'm not going to do that,” September said. “Let's keep going toward the back of the food court.” It turned out that behind the darkened food court was a darkened video arcade, also off-limits during Ramadan. Venturing to the back of the arcade we heard voices again. At the very rear of the arcade was an area that looked like a dark box canyon. Anyone in the box canyon could see someone coming so that if they were doing anything forbidden, say, like eating their take-out Subway sandwiches, they could quickly hide the evidence.

This is where we found a group of British teenagers eating their chicken subs in the dark, sitting on the horsies of a tiny merry-go-round. Feeling somewhat like junkies getting our fixes, we took our seats next to the motorcycle racer game.

Just as I was about to take a bite, September gently prodded me in the ribs and gave her head a quick nod in the direction of the almost pitch-black cockpits of the fighter jet arcade games. Sitting in the cockpits quietly eating
their
Subway takeouts were two grown Arab men.

I made the same subtle motion to Katrina and Jordan that September had made to me. “I can't believe they're doing that!” Katrina said in a tone that was both whispered and insistent. “I mean, they are not
supposed
to be eating!”

Simultaneously, Jordan was in awe. “Cool!” he intoned.

• • •

The afternoon was devoted to trying to see the city of Dubai, which at the moment was imitating the inside of an oven. At 6:00 p.m. we returned to Chili's at the mall to get our molten chocolate cake. No longer shuttered, the restaurant had completely transformed. It was packed with men in robes and women in head scarves sitting in front of untouched plates of food, anxiously checking their watches. Suddenly, Mr. Singy-Person crackled to life over the mall PA system, and there was a whoosh and blur of bending elbows as great quantities of chicken were enthusiastically consumed. I made a mental note that if I am ever reincarnated as a chicken in Dubai, I will immediately emigrate to Oregon, where I hear people exclusively eat granola.

 

John's Journal, October 14

In mid-October the sun is relentless. Parking lots are all covered by tents. One of the weirdest things I can't figure out is that at our hostel there is one kind of water in the faucet: hot. When we asked how to get cold water, they looked at us like we were from an alien planet. Why would anyone want cold water? Even the water flowing into the toilet bowl is hot, giving new meaning to the term “steamed buns.”

The cross section of people at the mall was hugely varied; about one-third of the people were Arabs, with the remainder being transplants from India, Africa, the Philippines, and Europe
.

Dubai has been described as Las Vegas, minus the casinos, set on the Arabian Peninsula. This is accurate. There are endless ways to keep yourself entertained, one being Wild Wadi, touted by our well-traveled friend as the best water park on the planet.

Wild Wadi justifies a trip halfway around the world.
The park has spared no expense in presenting its theme: an Arabian desert adventure with high canyon walls that mercifully block the afternoon sun. If you ever wondered what the sensation of being shot out of a water canon would be, Wild Wadi is your place. The lifeguards, twentysomething kids mostly from Northern Africa, seemed to be placed in the water solely to torment Jordan by patting him on the head.

For more sophisticated entertainment there is Dubailand. Dubailand is, or will be, the
ne plus ultra
of theme parks. When completed, Dubailand will be over twice the size of Orlando's Walt Disney World, currently the largest theme park in the world, but comparing it to Mickey leads to the wrong conclusion. When we were in Dubai the only part of Dubailand that had been completed was the autodome where you could rent a Ferrari and take it for a spin on the 3.4-mile FIA-sanctioned track. It was one of those things where if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it. Coming soon to Dubailand is everything from indoor skiing to the Mother of All Water Parks, promising to dwarf Wild Wadi.

• • •

The concept of a desert safari is simple enough: You are driven out to the middle of the desert and abandoned to spend the night hoping that in the morning your driver remembers where he left you.

I tried to make a case for not going. “Americans aren't exactly on the Arabs' ‘Most Admired' list.”

“What do you think they'll do?” September asked. “Take us out in the middle of the desert and leave us to rot?”

“Well, the thought crossed my mind. Worse things have happened to the naïvely trusting. Look what happened to Terry Waite.”

“Who?”

“The British hostage negotiator. The second he shed his bodyguards he was taken hostage himself.”

“Wasn't that like 20 years ago? Whatever happened to him? Did he get released?”

“I don't remember, but I don't want to meet him the hard way.”

“I already paid the travel agency.”

I wondered how many wives had used that line to get their husbands to accompany them on the
Titanic
.

We were picked up at our hostel by a nice young man in a turban and flowing white robes, driving a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser. We headed out of Dubai toward the country of Oman, making small talk, gliding down an ultra-modern freeway, passing the occasional camel and miles and miles of endless sand.

While we were driving I desperately wanted to ask our driver and guide, “So, how about those Israelis and Palestinians?” But I was chicken. Since we had concluded being a chicken in Dubai is a dangerous thing, I kept my mouth shut.

The city skyline was quickly swallowed by the vast dunes. The desert was everything I thought it would be. Sand stretched as far as the eye could see. I imagined I was on the ocean, the rolling dunes disappearing on the horizon as if they were waves. After many miles, our driver pulled off the smooth blacktop highway, into and over the rolling sand dunes.

“Crossing the dunes is a lot like riding a roller-coaster!” I exclaimed. The young driver was clearly enjoying ferrying folks over the sand in his shiny, company-provided Land Cruiser.

“Yes,” September replied. “Just like a roller-coaster, but without the assurance that comes with being on a steel track.”

Later, as we cleaned up the vomit that Jordan had deposited all over the back seat, I asked our guide about the various vehicle parts strewn across the desert. “Over yonder looks like a fender from a Land Cruiser,” I said. “And isn't that a bumper off a Hummer?”