Good Morning, Dubai!-7

It was an eventful weekend. First, I am not used to spending two days away from office. Last time I had the luxury of two-day weekend was two years ago in Bahrain. That time, I had a colleague – Vinod Verma – for company. We used to freak out over the weekend: eat, watch cricket match on tv, booze and party. This time around, I am alone. Habits die hard and I could not kick the practice of waking up early. To that extent, I had more wakeful hours to spend or kill.

Luckily, I had Ali – my neighbour from Pakistan whom you can read about in another separate blog (Good Morning, Dubai!-6) – for early morning company. Then, religiously took up Curveball, the book on how George W Bush mounted the invasion of Iraq purely on the basis of one Iraqi fugitive who had sought asylum in Germany. An interesting book of 360 odd pages. Completed over the weekend, though bought in Muscat a month ago.

The last few pages wherein the US President calls Kay – a think tank wonk – for lunch at White House to know what had gone wrong in his assessment of situation is revealing. It is an apt lesson for leaders how not to get carried by subordinates – particularly those who want to tell the boss what he would like to hear. Reminded of several of my colleagues over the past who screwed up lives just to save their asses.

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After two hours afternoon nap, decided to venture out on my own. No escorts. Why not try the Dubai Bus? Indeed, why not? It was 6 p.m. and stepped out and reached the nearest bus shelter. Beautiful structure. Reminded me of dugouts set up at IPL venues. Except they are glass-fronted closed set ups with airconditioning. Checked the bus time listing and decided to go to Century Mall/Mamzar. So chose route no.C14.

Though the scheduled arrival was 6.50 p.m, it came 25 minutes late. Stepped in and bought a 2 Dirhams ticket. Thought it would be a short drive for maybe 20-30 minutes. The beautiful bus was meandering through crowded Satwa road, Karama, British Council, Dubai Courts. I was losing patience. When enquired, my fellow passenger said it would take a long time. Maybe 90 minutes.

Ninety minutes inside even an airconditioned bus? No way. Near clock tower – a prominent spot, but can’t figure out where it is located – I simply got out, walked into a nearby Pakistani restaurant (You can't escape running into Pakistani or Filipino in Dubai!) and asked him to guide me back to Jumeira Post Office where I live. He asked me to cross over and take the same C 14 route bus.

Picking up a Diet Pepsi can, I climbed over the overbridge and waited for the bus. For 30 minutes, no sign of any C 14. My watch showed 9.30 p.m. I am in an alien land and have no clue about the topography. No taxi was stopping though I was waving frantically. An unmetered taxi guy approached and asked for 4o Dirhams for the trip back to home. I felt it too was too much. I offered Dh 20.

Before he could react, I spotted an approaching C 14 and entered. But I was asked to step out because I was carrying a Pepsi can. I did not want to throw it out. Again I have to wait for another 20 minutes before the next C 14 came. Paid 2 Dirham and found the Pakistani bearded driver very talkative. Sat in the first row– just a metre away from the front glass panel to enjoy the driver-seat view of the road in front.

After how long I don’t know, the bus halted and everyone trooped out. I also stepped out. But, I had no idea where I was standing. Suddenly found the Pak driver also was missing. One Indian on the road asked me to take C 14 to go to Jumeira Post office. I waited for 10 minutes before I could board another C 14. I told the driver to alert me when Jumeira Post office is reached.

After two halts, he told me to get out which I did and could not locate the Post Office – a landmark I had seen over the past week. It was 11.30 p.m. and I was stranded on the road. Moreover I was hungry. I began walking back towards where I boarded the bus. Then, I decided to take a cab and luckily I found an approaching cab.

Got in and told him to go to Jumeria Post Office. “Are you sure, you want to go Jumeira Post Office?” the old Paksitani driver asked. I said firmly, “yes’. He switched on the meter. “Fasten your belt, sir,” said he. After two minutes, he halted and said, “Sir, here’s Jumeria Post Office.” I did not know whether to cry or laugh.

I paid him 10 dirhams – the minimum fare and got out. The driver called me back and spoke in Hindi. Where in Jumeira Post Office? I showed him the street in front of Post Office. He asked me to climb the cab again and he dropped me in front of my house! “Allah has said that I had to take 10 Dirhams from you this night for such a short distance! I would not have taken this money from you had this been my private taxi. It is metered and I had to give account of this trip. Kindly excuse me, sir!” He stepped out and hugged me.

I entered home and wept loudly. It was close to midnight. Had my oatmeal dinner and hit the sack. The next morning, I stood before the Jumeria Post Office and kicked the ground several times out of frustration. “Swine,” I said in disgust. No, I was not cursing the drivers of the previous night. But my destiny!