360 Degrees Longitude

by John Higham

  “There’s a Chili’s in Dubai. In fact, there are two.”

  Of course we hadn’t thought of Ramadan. In Turkey we knew that the devout were fasting but businesses still conformed to normal hours and practices. In Dubai, Ramadan ruled our existence.

  Having our priorities in order, on our first day in Dubai we arose, passed on the stale breakfast from the previous night, did the homework ritual, and then took a bus straight to Chili’s at the Deira City Center mall. The bus was mercifully air-conditioned, but September was compelled to sit in the front, where she and the rest of the adult women were walled off from view. Since September couldn’t see me and the kids, I just hoped we would all get off at the same bus stop.

  Luckily, the mall was massive and there was no mistaking the stop. Stepping off the bus, Jordan remarked, “There’s nothing wrong with chocolate cake for breakfast. It’s loaded with milk, eggs, and flour—just like scrambled eggs and toast, only different.”

  A large portion of the population in Dubai are immigrants, imported to fuel the explosive growth in the area. As in much of the world, English is the second language widely used. Luckily for us, this meant most signs were posted in both Arabic and English.

  Even without the aid of being posted in our native tongue, there was no mistaking the familiar Chili’s logo on the map by the mall’s entrance. Jordan and I ran ahead while September and Katrina did a bit of window shopping en route. A few moments later we were looking at the darkened interior of Chili’s.

  “There will be no chocolate cake for breakfast today,” I announced to September and Katrina when they finally caught up. “The sign says it is closed for Ramadan. It will open later after sunset.”

  “Then what are we going to do for breakfast?” Katrina asked.

  “It’s actually almost lunchtime. I saw a food court on the mall’s map,” September said

  We followed September a while and consulted a sign or two along the way. Eventually we made it to the food court. It seemed that every major fast food chain on the planet was represented, but the food court was dark and virtually deserted. We wound our way past Cinnabon, Baskin-Robbins, Starbucks, McDonald’s, KFC. By their dress, it was apparent that half the people wandering around in the mall were European or Hindi who were surely hungry at lunchtime. But everything was shuttered for Ramadan.

  “I’m hungry,” Jordan stated. None of us had eaten since the flight from Istanbul.

  “We knew sooner or later we would have to go hungry,” I responded. “We may have to tough it out until tonight.”

  “I think I hear something,” September said.

  Faint voices were coming from the rear of the massive food court. Katrina and Jordan went toward the voices, then called back, “There’s a Subway open!”

  As we stood in line we found it was open only for take-out. The tables in the center of the food court were all roped off and there was a guard posted to be sure they stayed that way.

  I perused the menu. “Hey!” I said, “the ham and bacon are missing!” Nor was there any sign of a roast beef sandwich or a BLT. In their stead were roast chicken sandwiches, teriyaki chicken sandwiches, chicken salad sandwiches …

  “In a place where the Muslim locals don’t eat pigs and the imported Hindus don’t eat cows,” September noted, “Dubai is clearly a very dangerous place to be a chicken!”

  We ordered our take-out food and then tried to find a place we could eat without being busted by mall security. “We could eat in the restroom stalls,” I suggested.

  “I’m not going to do that,” September said. “Let’s keep going toward the back of the food court.” It turned out that behind the darkened food court was a darkened video arcade, also off-limits during Ramadan. Venturing to the back of the arcade we heard voices again. At the very rear of the arcade was an area that looked like a dark box canyon. Anyone in the box canyon could see someone coming so that if they were doing anything forbidden, say, like eating their take-out Subway sandwiches, they could quickly hide the evidence.

  This is where we found a group of British teenagers eating their chicken subs in the dark, sitting on the horsies of a tiny merry-go-round. Feeling somewhat like junkies getting our fixes, we took our seats next to the motorcycle racer game.

  Just as I was about to take a bite, September gently prodded me in the ribs and gave her head a quick nod in the direction of the almost pitch-black cockpits of the fighter jet arcade games. Sitting in the cockpits quietly eating their Subway takeouts were two grown Arab men.

  I made the same subtle motion to Katrina and Jordan that September had made to me. “I can’t believe they’re doing that!” Katrina said in a tone that was both whispered and insistent. “I mean, they are not supposed to be eating!”

  Simultaneously, Jordan was in awe. “Cool!” he intoned.

  • • •

  The afternoon was devoted to trying to see the city of Dubai, which at the moment was imitating the inside of an oven. At 6:00 p.m. we returned to Chili’s at the mall to get our molten chocolate cake. No longer shuttered, the restaurant had completely transformed. It was packed with men in robes and women in head scarves sitting in front of untouched plates of food, anxiously checking their watches. Suddenly, Mr. Singy-Person crackled to life over the mall PA system, and there was a whoosh and blur of bending elbows as great quantities of chicken were enthusiastically consumed. I made a mental note that if I am ever reincarnated as a chicken in Dubai, I will immediately emigrate to Oregon, where I hear people exclusively eat granola.

  John’s Journal, October 14

  In mid-October the sun is relentless. Parking lots are all covered by tents. One of the weirdest things I can’t figure out is that at our hostel there is one kind of water in the faucet: hot. When we asked how to get cold water, they looked at us like we were from an alien planet. Why would anyone want cold water? Even the water flowing into the toilet bowl is hot, giving new meaning to the term “steamed buns.”

  The cross section of people at the mall was hugely varied; about one-third of the people were Arabs, with the remainder being transplants from India, Africa, the Philippines, and Europe.

  Dubai has been described as Las Vegas, minus the casinos, set on the Arabian Peninsula. This is accurate. There are endless ways to keep yourself entertained, one being Wild Wadi, touted by our well-traveled friend as the best water park on the planet.

  Wild Wadi justifies a trip halfway around the world. The park has spared no expense in presenting its theme: an Arabian desert adventure with high canyon walls that mercifully block the afternoon sun. If you ever wondered what the sensation of being shot out of a water canon would be, Wild Wadi is your place. The lifeguards, twentysomething kids mostly from Northern Africa, seemed to be placed in the water solely to torment Jordan by patting him on the head.

  For more sophisticated entertainment there is Dubailand. Dubailand is, or will be, the ne plus ultra of theme parks. When completed, Dubailand will be over twice the size of Orlando’s Walt Disney World, currently the largest theme park in the world, but comparing it to Mickey leads to the wrong conclusion. When we were in Dubai the only part of Dubailand that had been completed was the autodome where you could rent a Ferrari and take it for a spin on the 3.4-mile FIA-sanctioned track. It was one of those things where if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. Coming soon to Dubailand is everything from indoor skiing to the Mother of All Water Parks, promising to dwarf Wild Wadi.

  • • •

  The concept of a desert safari is simple enough: You are driven out to the middle of the desert and abandoned to spend the night hoping that in the morning your driver remembers where he left you.

  I tried to make a case for not going. “Americans aren’t exactly on the Arabs’ ‘Most Admired’ list.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?” September asked. “Take us out in the middle of the desert and leave us to rot?”

  “Well, the thought crossed my mind. Worse things have happened to the naïvely trus
ting. Look what happened to Terry Waite.”

  “Who?”

  “The British hostage negotiator. The second he shed his bodyguards he was taken hostage himself.”

  “Wasn’t that like 20 years ago? Whatever happened to him? Did he get released?”

  “I don’t remember, but I don’t want to meet him the hard way.”

  “I already paid the travel agency.”

  I wondered how many wives had used that line to get their husbands to accompany them on the Titanic.

  We were picked up at our hostel by a nice young man in a turban and flowing white robes, driving a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser. We headed out of Dubai toward the country of Oman, making small talk, gliding down an ultra-modern freeway, passing the occasional camel and miles and miles of endless sand.

  While we were driving I desperately wanted to ask our driver and guide, “So, how about those Israelis and Palestinians?” But I was chicken. Since we had concluded being a chicken in Dubai is a dangerous thing, I kept my mouth shut.

  The city skyline was quickly swallowed by the vast dunes. The desert was everything I thought it would be. Sand stretched as far as the eye could see. I imagined I was on the ocean, the rolling dunes disappearing on the horizon as if they were waves. After many miles, our driver pulled off the smooth blacktop highway, into and over the rolling sand dunes.

  “Crossing the dunes is a lot like riding a roller-coaster!” I exclaimed. The young driver was clearly enjoying ferrying folks over the sand in his shiny, company-provided Land Cruiser.

  “Yes,” September replied. “Just like a roller-coaster, but without the assurance that comes with being on a steel track.”

  Later, as we cleaned up the vomit that Jordan had deposited all over the back seat, I asked our guide about the various vehicle parts strewn across the desert. “Over yonder looks like a fender from a Land Cruiser,” I said. “And isn’t that a bumper off a Hummer?”

  “This part of the desert is set aside for dune bashing,” our guide replied. “There used to be a lot of accidents here, but in the interest of tourist safety, all guides are now required to pass a rigorous off-road test and to be knowledgeable in emergency first aid.”

  “I feel so much better knowing that. What about the drivers that aren’t guides? Do they have to pass any special training?”

  “No, but most people who come here are very good drivers. You do have to be careful, though, when you see one of the off-road Lamborghinis. They are driven by the very rich and very crazy.”

  Our driver neared the drop-off place for our overnight stay. I looked about and noted the sun setting in the west, but apart from that everything looked the same from horizon to horizon. Our guide unloaded the back of the Land Cruiser with efficiency and then he was gone. He had left us with some water, a picnic basket full of chicken, and some blankets.

  “How does he know where to pick us up?” Katrina asked.

  “Good question.” My eyes were scanning the horizon for any off-road Lamborghinis. I turned to September and asked, “Did you notice a GPS device?”

  “No,” she replied.

  Jordan, having recovered from motion sickness caused by “dune bashing,” was running about wildly, delighting in the freedom of the open space and being utterly alone. “Cool! Is this where we’re staying tonight?!” he asked.

  The vast sea of sand all looked the same. “Have you ever noticed,” I said, “that if you put enough miles between you and a place, that place just seems to evaporate?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Katrina.

  “It’s hard to remember the carpet salesmen of Turkey,” September replied, “when the streets are lined with glistening chrome buildings and the banners hanging from the streetlights advertise the Real Estate Channel. It’s fun to be in a new place, but it’s sad that it’s so hard to remember the place we just left.”

  “Dubai seems so different,” Katrina commented.

  “It is different, isn’t it?” I said. “Mom couldn’t sit with us on the bus today because men and women aren’t allowed to mix in public. At the mall we saw men with three and four wives, and they were completely veiled.”

  “The writing we see looks like someone tried to pull the paper away,” Jordan offered.

  “But has anyone noticed how much the same things are?” September asked.

  “What do you mean?” Katrina asked.

  “The grown men at the mall eating their Subway takeout,” September continued. “Classic human behavior, trying to be anonymous when being sneaky. At the end of the day, we aren’t all so different from one another.”

  Everywhere we had visited it was possible to see what was different about it and the people. Yet I was beginning to see how much things—and people—were alike. Was it like that in Europe, and I was too distracted to notice?

  The desert was very dark at night. And the stars brilliant. And we all felt very, very small.

  www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz

  Not lost in a sea of sand. I’d just like to express my gratitude to the young man in the turban for paying attention in Boy Scouts.

  12.

  Stranded by Our Stupidity

  October 18–November 2

  Tanzania

  The nice man with the machine gun at passport control wanted two hundred dollars for four visas. Cash.

  We knew visas were fifty dollars each, payable in good ol’ Yankee currency, before we stepped on the plane in Dubai, but I didn’t want to withdraw a bunch of dirhams only to discover that I couldn’t exchange them in Tanzania. Our strategy was to hope we would find an ATM in Tanzania before we reached passport control. We didn’t.

  As I explained our predicament to Mr. Machine Gun, he replied, “No problem. There are ATMs outside of the airport near the taxi stand. Just be sure to come back.”

  I left September, Katrina, and Jordan as collateral to ensure my return and proceeded past passport control and out of the airport. As promised, outside of the airport two ATMs, on different networks, awaited. But there was also a pride of cab drivers waiting for a fare and a legion of beggars waiting for relief. All eyes were upon me. Due to low transaction limitations, to get enough cash I had to make eight separate transactions, four on each network. I pretended to be invisible as I stuffed an inch-thick wad of Tanzanian shillings into my pocket. I shuffled off to exchange them back into dollars for our visas.

  Access to cash was our biggest problem in Tanzania. It would also be the catalyst for our appreciation of the people of a tiny village in the Usambara Mountains.

  • • •

  The power was out citywide in Dar es Salaam, the largest Tanzanian city, and it was expected to remain out for two weeks due to lack of replacement parts for a key generator. That every third or so shop owner was ready with a portable generator told me that power outages were not uncommon. This was my first experience in a large African city. Gone were the shiny chrome buildings of Dubai. In their place was dense, chaotic traffic and street peddlers lined up elbow to elbow, each more desperate than the last. The effect of fumes from generators mixing with trash rotting on the sidewalks and in the gutters was choking.

  This was the kids’ first experience in a third world city. “Why is there so much trash in the streets?” Katrina asked as she leaped across a pothole.

  “No garbage cans,” Jordan responded matter-of-factly.

  “Well, why don’t they just get some?”

  “Most likely no collection service,” yelled September as we passed a particularly noisy generator.

  The garbage-in-the-street question was the first of many that the kids started asking. Why won’t they accept Tanzanian shillings for visas? Why are there so many people trying sell the exact same things?

  We were spared any generator noise and fumes at our hostel; this also meant we were spared electricity. What could we expect for five dollars a night? Going without power was actually very nice. We spent a pleasant evening in the courtyard of th
e hostel talking with some of the other guests as Jordan zapped flies and mosquitoes with the handheld, battery-powered zapper he’d acquired from a street peddler.

  Beth, a middle-aged woman from Philadelphia who worked with the Peace Corps, was vocalizing some of her frustrations. She was in Dar, as it is known locally, for a few days before returning to the village where she was trying to raise AIDS awareness.

  “The ugly truth,” Beth said, “is that ‘safe sex’ has taken on a sinister twist in the bush areas.” With a cautious glance at Katrina she continued. “’Safe sex’ is taken to mean sex with younger and younger girls who are not yet infected.”

  We had brought the kids on the World-the-Round Trip to experience the good and the bad of humanity. Just over 24 hours after arriving in Tanzania, Katrina and Jordan were already asking hard questions about why this place was so different from others we had visited. I had been wondering that myself, and had yet to find a very satisfying answer.

  With no power in the city it was very dark in Dar es Salaam and the Milky Way was stunning in the African night. Even though Katrina wasn’t meant to be part of our conversation with Beth, as we had learned in our first weeks on the road there were no private conversations in our foursome. As soon as the syllables “… younger girls” had left Beth’s lips, Katrina spun around and looked at us and said, “What? What are you guys talking about?”

  It was a segue into a discussion I really didn’t want to have. Beth quietly slipped away and we spent the next hour or so discussing everything from AIDS to the meaning of life, corruption in governments, garbage collection services, and the vastness of space with Katrina and Jordan.

  I had naïvely thought that these philosophical discussions would occur almost daily on our trip. Not that I liked talking about AIDS with my kids, but the vastness of space is right up there on my top ten list. I had presumed our year together as a family would be spent learning about each other on a new level, debating politics, and discussing the wonders of science. What we found was that the days were filled with the trivialities of existence, just like at home. So, to be able to have a long meandering conversation with my kids under the starlight on an African night was worth the entire trip.