G., H. and I went out to see only the 'mild side' (according to H.) of Al Ain last night at about a quarter to midnight and had a playful taxi driver increase his fare by taking a circuitous route to the Hilton. But what was an extra two and a half dirhams ($0.75) especially when the price of a liter of petrol has gone up and taxi drivers earn no salary except what they earn from fares after the monthly payment to the owner of the taxi, who, according to H., are largely women?
G. had made the remark while we were drinking Argentinian red wine in his flat that the names of the taxi owners displayed in the taxis were sometimes women's. H. quipped that they were either widows, or divorcees ("I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee" H. said in Arabic) whose husbands left them with some compensation by buying them a taxi to earn money. Taxi drivers pay for gas out of their own pocket and maintain their taxis themselves. Our taxi driver was grinning while we bantered in Arabic on the way to the Hilton and was probably amused, a brief interlude, these taxi drivers usually driving their taxis for 12 hours a day. I sat in the front seat without my seatbelt on, it being a foolish policy I have of not putting it on if the taxi driver isn't wearing his, a kind of misguided statement of solidarity, a pact with death, in the event of a fatal accident in which neither he nor I would escape, he immediately transported to heaven, to the houris and the wine he's not allowed on earth, and I, to purgatory to be purged of my sins, like having my bags checked in customs before getting on that flight to heaven. However, according to statistics I read in the Gulf News, taxi drivers get in very few accidents.
It was G.'s idea to go to Paco's at the Hilton since he had never been there, the Horse & Jockey being his preferred watering hole, an English style pub at the InterCon. We went to the Peach Garden instead because it was too late to catch the singers at Pacos. The Peach Garden, attached to the Hilton, was like a dandut bar in Jakarta or a cave in Paris, rectangular in shape with a bandstand at one end. The Filipino band was on break when we arrived. I had been enticed to come by H.'s remark that the Peach Garden had whores, Chinese, Russian, Iranian and Ethiopian. (H. remarked that the latter are very passive in bed.) However, I didn't see any women at all except the waitress and the three Filipina singers who were thinly clad in black shiny leather and thick soled high-heeled boots. (H. said that Thursday night was when the whores came out.) There were about two dozen young men sitting at tables or standing at the small bar along the wall. In the background loud music was playing, a refrain repeating in an obnoxious defiant way, "shit, shit, shit". G. said he was having a hard time focusing, so I told him to focus on the belly buttons of the singers.
The Filipina singers were actually quite entertaining, appealing to the crowd by singing a song in Arabic that engaged a member of the audience in doing a little male belly dancing on the bandstand. They also sang "I am an Egyptian" and the classic "I love rock 'n roll, put another dime in the juke box, baby." At the end of the set one of the singers came to our table, her belly button at about eye-level. I took her hand and told her I enjoyed it. H. asked her if she knew any motown, but she didn't seem to know this music despite my adding, "Detroit?" and H. saying, "Marvin Gaye?" This didn't surprise me, Filipinos in general knowing only the most popular white American music and especially disco, though one of my Filipino nephews likes Nelly.
H. suggested we go to Pizza Hut, which is open till 4 in the morning, and so we dragged G. along reluctantly. We ordered the pizza, but G. remained adamant, he had to get home despite H.'s protests that he had to catch a taxi with me since both of us were going to our respective flats in the same building. Nevertheless he left us and H. and I ate the pizza.
By the time we left Piza Hut it was past 2 a.m. and there were few cars and fewer taxis. H. was going in the opposite direction so he suggested I go to Main street to catch a taxi. We parted ways and as I began walking down Main street I heard the beep of a taxi and got in. In Arabic I told the driver my destination and that I had only 6 dirhams, 'manaseer gadeem, endee sittah dirhams fukit', the usual price being 10 dirhams after 10 or 11 o'clock when the drivers turn their meters off. He smiled in assent and took me home.
G. had made the remark while we were drinking Argentinian red wine in his flat that the names of the taxi owners displayed in the taxis were sometimes women's. H. quipped that they were either widows, or divorcees ("I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee" H. said in Arabic) whose husbands left them with some compensation by buying them a taxi to earn money. Taxi drivers pay for gas out of their own pocket and maintain their taxis themselves. Our taxi driver was grinning while we bantered in Arabic on the way to the Hilton and was probably amused, a brief interlude, these taxi drivers usually driving their taxis for 12 hours a day. I sat in the front seat without my seatbelt on, it being a foolish policy I have of not putting it on if the taxi driver isn't wearing his, a kind of misguided statement of solidarity, a pact with death, in the event of a fatal accident in which neither he nor I would escape, he immediately transported to heaven, to the houris and the wine he's not allowed on earth, and I, to purgatory to be purged of my sins, like having my bags checked in customs before getting on that flight to heaven. However, according to statistics I read in the Gulf News, taxi drivers get in very few accidents.
It was G.'s idea to go to Paco's at the Hilton since he had never been there, the Horse & Jockey being his preferred watering hole, an English style pub at the InterCon. We went to the Peach Garden instead because it was too late to catch the singers at Pacos. The Peach Garden, attached to the Hilton, was like a dandut bar in Jakarta or a cave in Paris, rectangular in shape with a bandstand at one end. The Filipino band was on break when we arrived. I had been enticed to come by H.'s remark that the Peach Garden had whores, Chinese, Russian, Iranian and Ethiopian. (H. remarked that the latter are very passive in bed.) However, I didn't see any women at all except the waitress and the three Filipina singers who were thinly clad in black shiny leather and thick soled high-heeled boots. (H. said that Thursday night was when the whores came out.) There were about two dozen young men sitting at tables or standing at the small bar along the wall. In the background loud music was playing, a refrain repeating in an obnoxious defiant way, "shit, shit, shit". G. said he was having a hard time focusing, so I told him to focus on the belly buttons of the singers.
The Filipina singers were actually quite entertaining, appealing to the crowd by singing a song in Arabic that engaged a member of the audience in doing a little male belly dancing on the bandstand. They also sang "I am an Egyptian" and the classic "I love rock 'n roll, put another dime in the juke box, baby." At the end of the set one of the singers came to our table, her belly button at about eye-level. I took her hand and told her I enjoyed it. H. asked her if she knew any motown, but she didn't seem to know this music despite my adding, "Detroit?" and H. saying, "Marvin Gaye?" This didn't surprise me, Filipinos in general knowing only the most popular white American music and especially disco, though one of my Filipino nephews likes Nelly.
H. suggested we go to Pizza Hut, which is open till 4 in the morning, and so we dragged G. along reluctantly. We ordered the pizza, but G. remained adamant, he had to get home despite H.'s protests that he had to catch a taxi with me since both of us were going to our respective flats in the same building. Nevertheless he left us and H. and I ate the pizza.
By the time we left Piza Hut it was past 2 a.m. and there were few cars and fewer taxis. H. was going in the opposite direction so he suggested I go to Main street to catch a taxi. We parted ways and as I began walking down Main street I heard the beep of a taxi and got in. In Arabic I told the driver my destination and that I had only 6 dirhams, 'manaseer gadeem, endee sittah dirhams fukit', the usual price being 10 dirhams after 10 or 11 o'clock when the drivers turn their meters off. He smiled in assent and took me home.
posted by Al Kover(t) at
1:01 AM
1 Comments:
I say 'so-called' because it is commonly refered to as a Gulf country but is that necessarily correct? Iran is on the Gulf, is it commonly refered to as a Gulf country? Hardly!
As to the name, I simply didn't want people here in Al Ain to be reading my blog under my real identiy and read things about themselves that may not be flattering to them. In fact, I didn't post one thing I wrote because my wife said it wasn't exactly flattering to the person described, so I quickly changed my identity, this Al Kover, which is the name of one of my deceased uncles, 'Kover' pronounced with a long o.
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