THE RUBY RING Virginia Gow 19/03/12
No breezes flow in from the Persian Gulf to cool this golden city on the Arabian Peninsula. This ancient town has always been a trading center for East and West. Here is free trade. It is within the Arabian Desert and its fine clean white sand dunes are made from crushed shell and coral. Water is precious and up the wadi, waterholes and gorges fill up then dry up. No oasis here, just the creek that slowly flows into the Persian Gulf.
Mid morning sunlight embraces the ankle length flowing white kandura, the national dress of the men of Dubai. They glide, in twos and threes effortlessly down the ancient roads. Theirs is a serene world, populated by a wealthy community with three quarters of the population brought in from Asia to carry out all manual labour. The indigenous people of Dubai have left their desert wanderings long ago. Theirs is a trading tradition, and as such they now embark on managing Oil, Tourism, Financial Services, Construction and World Class Sporting Events.
Now their minds are taken up with perpetuating their capital flow, and the Constitutional Monarchy that rules is able to manage investments effectively. The Sheikhdom flourishes and it has one of the busiest airports in the world. Ties with Britain assure a prominent position in world affairs.
Women enjoy the morning shopping at the giant shopping malls. They dress in Abaya, the black over-garment covering most parts of the body. They are aware they have more freedom here than else where in Arab States. In the Malls are all the latest fashions from a western world eager for their patronage and willing to trade. This is the shopping capital of the Middle East and Bedouin folk music is piped through the modern speakers.
In this playground of wealth people may stay on a man-made island hotel built in the shape of a sail for over $1000 a night. One has to arrange a visit one day in advance because this is a highly sought after gated community. Passport numbers are listed on entry, names checked off at the guardhouse. Guests are ferried around in golf buggies. Golden pillars surround the foyer. Glass lifts fly effortlessly 200 meters above sea level to a cocktail lounge. Guests dine al fresco on the beach. Lanterns flutter on the hookah shadows as a pipe is passed around scenting the air with apple, cloves and tobacco. A soft-slippered boy from Pakistan delivers spiced desert food to a discreet table by the water’s edge.
Because the town has no sewerage, septic tanks are used to convey waste away to Sewerage Works that convert it to manure. There is a small warning, beware of swimming at Jumeirah Beach. Because some people are not prepared to pay the price for waste disposal, they dump it at night into the sea. It creates a health problem for the beach.
Dubai Creek is the waterway for the town.
The Creek is dredged to enable dhours to anchor. These colourful boats have been coming and going from Far East, China, Sri Lanka and India for centuries.
Nobody bothers the two ladies from overseas as they walk down to Dubai Creek.
Ginny and Yvonne have spent many years traveling the globe together.
They dress in the code of the country and are respectful of its laws. They are leaving the modern world in search of the ancient life. The smuggling trade is brisk in Old Dubai, but they are not interested in that trade. They seek the souks adjacent to the docks. It is rumoured that the gold souk in Deira houses two hundred and fifty gold retail shops, tiny jeweler shops crammed together in a labyrinth. Cross the Creek and enter another world. Here there is no sense of danger, only a sense of the exotic that is the Middle East. Anybody found bothering travellers quietly disappears.
To cross the Creek Ginny and Yvonne are directed to a dhour, the old long boats that make the crossing of the creek possible. There are no safety rails or boarding planks. They jump onto the boat. These simple ferries one rides for a dollar at one’s own risk. The ladies alight at the Spice Souk Station. They are amazed at the aromas that drift from every shop window. Through the bustling shopping area of market stalls, two enormous wooden gates beckon them into a dazzling endless maze of gold.
Policing is strict and illegal shops spring up and close down in a day. Beware the dodgy seller who only has fools’ gold. Raids are frequent and happen on a daily basis.
When such a raid happens in a shop they have entered, they quietly exit and watch from a safe distance as police close up shop and everybody drifts away.
Wandering around alleyways of golden shops, displaying necklaces fit for an Empress, they finally come to a small corner shop where seven Abaya clad ladies are enjoying themselves and buying gold. The two ladies enter, thinking this may be a good sign of fair dealing. One of the blackbirds comes from Canada and states that she comes here every year to buy her gold. She says that she is marrying herself and everyone joins in the party.
Encouraging the newcomers to partake of this game, everyone is overjoyed when Ginny chooses a ruby ring and a simple gold band. Truth be told, she had left her rings at home, and had realized that it’s far safer to travel with a band of gold then with no ring on her finger.
On the way back, the dhour is stuffed with workers from Asia. Ginny is aware that they are housed in stable-like conditions, whilst money earned is sent home. They are wearing raggedy clothes. They are all men. The ladies keep to themselves, but when, on leaving the vessel, Ginny slips and stares at creek-water, a tired, worn out worker saves her, extending his arm. No small feat for a Muslim man.
Ginny enjoyed going up the wadi, camel riding and falconing, being tattooed with henna in a Bedouin camp but for all this she preferred meeting with the blackbirds in the old gold souk and having a ruby ring to remind her of this epic journey.
