What I Did On My Holidays – via Dubai
Not planning on writing about airports as a general principal, but Dubai International deserves a mention, because I have never transitted through such a ridiculous, amazing, spectacular, silly, over the top cultural melting point as Dubai.
Yes, I was transitting, and yes, I was doing it to save cash on my way to somewhere else. We flew in at night, and from the air Dubai was an orange-stained sandy blur, a darkness punctuated by the occasional pools of brilliant light, sand dotted occasionally with the white blobs of a mansion and the distant burning orange fires of oil wells across sand and water as we flew in over the Persian Gulf. But the airport itself was brilliant white, at least on the inside, which was what we were ushered straight into. Brilliant white with blue carpets and more people than you will find on the busiest shopping streets on the silliest of days. Once you’re through passport control and into the departures lounge, you enter a world of all worlds. Beneath lamps shaped like flying saucers and golden palm trees are shops selling whiskey, shisha pipes, DVDs of the life of the Prophet Muhammad, DVDs of Die Hard, clothes, bags, books, magazines, newspapers in every language you’ve ever seen, holidays, destinations, food of every kind; the first thing I saw on exiting was a Starbucks, and between every cafe was a line of computers for internet access, all constantly in use. There are prayer rooms for men and women, bathrooms and water fountains immaculately maintained, great sweeping windows that allow you to look out onto the constantly in use runways, everywhere noise and hassle and people shopping.
In fact, the only thing that Dubai seriously lacked, was a place to rest while waiting for the flight. There were plenty of chairs, but every single one was occupied with people, and where there was space, the places beneath the chairs were occupied with people sleeping, stretched out on luggage, towels or blankets where they had them, while feet passed constantly a foot from their faces. Flights to every corner of the world were constantly being declared in English and Arabic, five screens of departure information barely enough to contain one hours worth of take off data, and every costume and colour of skin could be seen trying to work out which gate their flight went from. Gates were called late, which was in its own way quite frustrating as, just beyond the security desk, you could see empty chairs waiting to be filled; but once past the security desk, opportunities to shop declined, which perhaps explains everything. It was 1 a.m. local time when we first arrived, and 3 a.m. when we departed, and the bustle was still going strong.
On our return trip, we arrived 5 a.m.ish local time, and things were calmer. Still no chairs, of course; every patch of ground occupied by sleepers and the slumbering. We found a pillar to snooze against as the sun came up behind us and it was, between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m., when our flight departed, mildly calmer. There is a romance about still moments in places that have been busy; it is the same in the sound of a train on a quiet night, or that moment in the city when, on a busy junction, the bustle stops, and you can’t hear the sound of cars any more. Then again, there is also that fatigue from having already been on a plane for 8 sleepless hours, which perhaps lends more romance to a thing than the thing deserves. Transitting is never fun, and I must admit, I have no great yen to go visit Dubai any time soon. But I have never seen such bustle in so small a place in my life.
