Perhaps some of the most amusing observations in my new-found (now relatively old) life in Dubai have quite surprisingly been gathered not within our primary haunts, but outside them. The means of travel which I earlier considered comparative - although mundane - novelties have come to pass as the most eventful and frequent ones. I’m talking about cabs and flights, whose presence has now become more of a necessity than a convenience in our lives (lives which now mostly involve travel more than anything else, thanks to the incredulously large gap in distance between the hostel and the college).
Taxi Trauma
Not that there’s anything particularly special about cabs in Dubai. Even though they’re definitely fancier than the ones in India, with Camry taxis regarded as the lowest in the pecking order, that doesn’t change the drivers behind the wheel. They’re usually Indians, Pakistanis or Arabs, and though most of them are happy doing just their job (definitely preferable), it doesn’t prevent the occasional bump with an odd one out.
There are the types, who are so delighted to serve someone of their own country that they fail to shut their traps for the entire length of the journey. For example, one evening we were faced with an esteemed shayar of the Indian mainland. Or so he thought himself to be. The entire ride was a painful recreation of the film ‘Fanaa’, except this fellow expected us to join in with his lyrical fixation. Now, taking into account that not one of us knew a single sher other than the perverse prose used in the hostel, and also that one of us three friends was an Andhrite (completely out of the scene right from his birth) definitely displeased him. I can say this with considerable confidence because he left us off in a fairly deserted and unfamiliar location far from our destination, with a frown so deeply etched on his face that it was visible even in the sooty darkness that had enveloped us over an hour back. It was my late reaction that gave us a solution to this out-and-out mess. We confidently entered a Shangri-La hotel which was two blocks away (as regally as our casual, hotel-inappropriate clothing could permit), pretended to check out the menu of the coffee shop, emptied our bursting bladders in the loo, and stepped out, demanding the doorman to hail a cab for us, a service provided without inquiry to all hotel guests. It’s a separate matter that we reached the hostel in style that night, stretching out with a sigh of pleasure in a beautiful, navy-blue Lexus.
Another kind is the prejudiced, racist type. Mostly the Arabs (primarily of National Taxi Service) and hardcore Pakis constitute this much despised category. The Arabs make you feel like you’re trespassing on private property by daring to dwell in their desertificated country. They either try to scare you out of your wits by driving as rashly as possible (of which there’s plenty of scope on the wide roads and among the blurring traffic), or they pretend to simply not understand English or Hindi (a feature prevalent in Europe as well, again a consequence of superior, racist sentiments).
The Pakistanis, though mostly quite friendly and in harmonious acceptance of the fact that serving Indians is a part of their job, too have their share of weirdo pricks. There was an instance around the beginning of semester 1, when my mother and I were travelling by a Pathan cab (Illegally operating private cabs, usually indistinguishable from the licensed ones). The cabbie remains one of the strangest, most repulsive persons we’ve ever encountered in our lives. He part-took in activities to the tune of cleaning the hard-to-reach places in his car with a toothpick and then using that very piece of wood for the task it’s actually meant for. Alongside, he constantly mumbled about the unacceptable direction in which today’s world is heading, pausing his monotone from time to time to ask us tourists, whether the route he was taking was right or not. There were moments more than one during that journey, when we were unsure whether we would sanely see it though.
Though, as I mentioned before, this definitely doesn’t mean all of them are like this. In fact, most cabbies are quite pleasant and accustomed to their jobs. Weirdoes exist in all spheres of life, I guess. Be it on the road, or as professors in college. But that is a separate matter. One I’m sure all BITSians can well relate to. Wink!
Attitudes, On Board
Shifting to Dubai has certainly had its share of fringe benefits. Frequent air travel is one of them. Or so one would presume. Flying, the way we do it is far from fringe. Air India and Indian Airlines bode well to the Indian ‘culture’, by which I imply that they fit in seamlessly into all the things which have caused our country to assume the title of a ‘developing nation’ and not a developed one.
One trip aboard the IC-896 outbound to Dubai is all one needs. For the amateur traveller, disappointment towards the much hyped prospect of air travel is inevitable. For the frequent flyer, it’ll be shock, amusement and a tinge of sadness towards the state of affairs in our country, which is so visibly full of potential, but just as openly, floundering.
On a world class flight such as KLM or British Airways, the friendliness, hospitality and dedication of the staff are among the first things you’ll notice, other than of course, the pristine upholstery of the aircraft, which in AI and IA is on the verge of collapsing. On Indian Airlines, all one gets to see is women who’re just too old for their jobs . But that’s not the major problem with the staff (unless it’s hotties in tighties that the passenger wants to see, which in the case of BITS boys, is mostly the case). The problem arises because the women know they’re too old for their jobs. Air hostesses are made to wear the most unflatteringly styled and dully coloured uniforms ever. As a whole, they can most aptly be described as a gaggle of cackling witches. Except they’re so bored, frustrated and disinterested, that even cackling is too much of a bother. Though their job description entails something much different, they’re best at stomping up and down the aisle in a towering temper that threatens to unleash itself at the first person to call for assistance. Rudeness and unconcern is second nature to a personality made hard by the nasty majority of passengers that the Delhi - Dubai sector usually carries. So much so, that a simple smile of welcome or goodbye is just too much to ask.
The passengers in the flights, especially those on the way to Dubai are a class apart. Literally. About 80% of them constitute the labour class that is constantly and consistently routed from the Indian peninsula to the modernised desert, unless, of course, if that 80% percent is booked by BITSians somberly making their way back to college after at least a month of pure bliss. This group of labourers are mostly so poor, that, forget a flight, even a local train is too much to afford. So their behaviour is actually justified. Nonetheless, behaviour it is. Bad behaviour. The seemingly unlimited supply of liquor along with seats more comfortable than any they’ve ever rested their sore buttocks on, have an effect more intoxicating than that induced by drugs on them. It takes precisely two mini bottles to make them cling to the already pissed attendant asking for more. They gobble their food noisily and shamelessly, making sounds heard only in areas like Kishangarh. And when they take off their shoes...well, all hell breaks loose. And that my friend, is putting it mildly.
There have been occasions, of course when we’ve come across other breeds of in-flight weirdoes. For example, perhaps the most eventful flight till date has been the return journey to India in June this year. As is usually the case, I had a group of friends accompanying me, and my faithful travel buddies, Pranav, Nasser and Ehtesham were sitting right in front of me. They bore full witness to all the happenings on board. Just as I did.
The sad ratio of boys is to girls in our college followed even inside the flight. Out of the ten odd students on board, just three were of the female kind. Two of them were sitting right across the aisle from me. The third seat on their side was occupied by a person who was not only out of place on an aircraft, but also the thought of him wandering the streets of Dubai prior to boarding it seemed absurd. A villager complete with an enormous off white turban reminiscent of Shah Rukh Khan in the God-awful flick ‘Paheli’, a skirt-like Rajasthani dress atop a stained, cream dhoti, and handmade chappals on the feet. To top it, several hammer-beaten gold and silver ornaments adorned his ears, neck, wrists and ankles, while a roughly hewn wooden staff stuck on, as if super-glued, to his hand.
The girls, naturally, were so uncomfortable with the seating arrangement, that one of them actually refused to sit. Being the gentleman that I am, (you can stop rolling your eyes now) I offered to let them take mine and my college-mate Abhijeet’s seat. Sadly, it was him who had to sit next to this vision from a village. Either way, it didn’t stop me from observing him to my hearts content throughout the flight. A few of the antics he displayed include eyes directed only towards the girls opposite, his pose which was suggestive of every character in ‘Lagaan’ (feet on the seat in with knees apart), and the rather shocking production of a pen-knife from the folds of his laborious outfit to open up a packet of peanuts that the bored air-hostess had dropped onto his lap.
Believe it or not, that isn’t the end of the experience that was this journey. About an hour into the flight, God seemed to decide that we needed some more in-flight entertainment (as if the dude from rural India wasn’t enough to keep us preoccupied throughout), when four surds sitting one row behind me let alcohol get the better of them. In five minutes time, the interior of the aircraft had transformed into a Punjabi post-wedding celebration. Profanities, antakshari and nursery rhymes filled the air for the rest of the flight-time, and not one person had the guts to mess with the drunken duds. Pranav, who was busy writing his own blog prior to the musical outburst, actually stopped even trying to do so once it began, and did what probably we all should have done instead of firing disapproving, yet amused glares at the surdies. He joined in! Well, I guess that’s what makes him the Blaze Fanthom…
I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of the lasting memories that exceptional journeys leave behind. Three more years worth still to come!
