Sleepless in Dubai

                                         Sleepless in Dubai

 

 

A friend told me, as the kids and I embarked on our world tour eight years ago, the word  “travel” originated from the French word “travail,” which means work.  Travel may be less onerous today than in ancient times, but it’s no baguette-and-brie picnic when you spend ten hours in your departure airport, 18 hours in the air and arrive at your hotel at eight am, exhausted, smelly, wearing teeth wrapped in pashminas.

This is the state in which Fiona, Finley and I arrive in Dubai. After a snack in the hotel coffee shop and too-brief nap, we hop a hotel shuttle van to the Dubai Mall. Spending three seconds outside in 40 degree Celsius/104 Fahrenheit heat morphs me into an ice cream seeking missile.

 

 Inside the world’s largest mall (by area, at nearly 6 million square feet, with 1300 shops), we bustle past the two-story wall of water containing an aquarium and settle on serve-yourself, pay-by-weight frozen yogurt. It’s pricey in New Zealand and ridiculous in Dubai. I nearly shriek as Finley attempts to pile gummi bears atop his mountain of soft serve heaped with chocolate. “Those are really heavy,” I say. Our frozen treat was around $30 for the three of us, the same as two sandwiches, porridge and two donuts at the hotel.

 

 

 

We taxi to Atlantis at the Palm, an extravagant resort on a man-made island (shaped, naturally, like a palm tree), to visit the Aquaventure Park. Walk around in an oven all day after 30 hours in transit and a 30-minute nap? Sounds reasonable.

 

We ride the river on inner tubes. Conveyor belts elevate the tubes before shooting us into rapids, where we swirl and twirl. We’d left our sandals where we started, figuring we’d pop round the river and grab them at the end. Except we can't find the end. Soon, we're hot-footing it around each bend, seeking rubber footwear to save our soles. We finally find the shoes.

 

We had planned to meet my friend Veneta and her kids, Olivia and Josh at the water park. Fiona spots Veneta about an hour after our arrival. Soon, the kids are off together on the slides.

Meanwhile, my eyelids feel as if they’ve been dipped in concrete and I succumb to a brief nap in a lounge chair. Heat provides a wake-up call. When the kids return, they drag Old Mom on two large tube rides with steep drops designed to test multiparous women’s bladder control.

Back at the Dubai Mall, we watch three spectacular fountain shows set to music. Next door, the world’s tallest building, Burj Khalifa, presents its own music and lights show. We did not summit the tower’s 828 metres (2,717), as the air was too hazy during our two days in Dubai to merit the expensive elevator ride.

 

 

Dinner at the Social House is pleasant, with views of the two spectacles at once. I peruse the restaurant’s drinks menu in search of beer, but find only mocktails, juices and sodas. I’d forgotten – no alcohol in Dubai cafes and restaurants unless they’re attached to a hotel. My lemon and lime fizz with fresh mint is delicious, though likely contained 500 percent more sugar than an IPA.

We farewell our friends, who would leave tomorrow, also en route to Europe (also without husbands/fathers, both of whom stayed in New Zealand for work), and head downstairs to the taxi queue. It’s Saturday night, and a dozen other people await rides inside this underground blast furnace. A woman wearing a shirt marked Royal Smart Limousine waves the kids and I over from the marked taxis to a Toyota minivan with no top light, and no meter. My Spidey senses say grab the kids and run, but my jetlagged brain can’t compute fast enough. “Eighty dirhams, no more, no less,” says the woman to the driver. She has just arranged a ride to our hotel that should’ve cost around 50 AED (around $13 USD).  Fatigue smothers judgement. We take the ride. Once at the hotel, I hold out my credit card, as I’d already done for two other taxi drivers. “Oh, no credit,” says the driver. He drives me three minutes to another hotel where I pay 26 dirhams ($7 USD) to extract money from an ATM. So now the ride costs 106 AED ($29 USD).

I am boiling with rage. If I were a person who swore at strangers, I would’ve called him a scamming son-of-a-bitch. But I’m not, and this dude is just a cog in a machine. “Never again!” I snap as I slam the door. Limousine, my ass. Take your minivan and shove it.

Once in our room, I fire off an email to Royal Smart Limousine, telling them I was overcharged and forced to pay extra to get cash. The next morning, a representative from RSL and I exchange a series of emails where he tells me the driver has been reprimanded for not informing me his credit card machine wasn’t working, but that the company offers premium service and charges higher rates during peak times. I explain I didn’t want a “luxury car,” and felt taken advantage of when I was shunted away from metered taxis to the “limousines.” I’ve already drafted complaints to the taxi licensing body and tourism board in my head when RSL informs me they will, in fact, refund me 50 AED. I tell them this seems fair. It feels like vindication.

Our second and final day in Dubai, we revisit the mall to scope items on the kids’ wish lists. They’ve saved their money for clothes and shoes. Fiona buys overalls and a shirt at Forever 21. Finley buys skater shoes on sale at the Vans store. I drag the kids back to the taxi stand, where an RSL employee meets me to deliver my 50 AED refund. But not before taking a photo of me with the money. I imagine my pasty, jet-lagged face framed by Krusty the Clown ringlets on the company’s website with the caption, “I love Royal Smart Limousine. They save me lots of money!” Fiona and I decide not to frame this hard-won equivalent of $13, but instead, spend part of it on manicures for her and me while Finley plays a videogame in the middle of the mall.

I restrain myself from taking close-up photos of women wearing niqabs, coverings that leave only letterbox openings for eyes. At the fountain show, a woman with covered head and exposed face smiles and laughs. I wonder what it’s like for women wearing a niqab to not be able to express themselves in public. I wonder if little girls walking alongside their shrouded mothers know enough to envy their brothers, who will never be asked to conceal their faces. It’s a lot to take in at a mall.

We dine in the food court, and at 7pm, start making the 700 metre or so trek to catch the shuttle van. Descend three escalators, zig, zag, this way or that? Over here… we’ve nearly found the main entrance when Fiona stops and yells, “My bags!” She has left her bags somewhere. So has Finley. Despite the air conditioning, I’m steaming again. We sprint back through the mall, zig, zag, here, no, there – up three sets of escalators. To the Vans store – two bags found. To the food court – another bag. Fiona can’t find her backpack. “My phone is in there!” she cries. We ask about lost and found. It’s down three floors. It’s 7:20. No way we’ll catch our van. “You both are paying for the Uber,” I tell the kids.

The friendly staff at lost and found say don’t worry, they’ll look for Fiona’s bag. By now, Fi is crying, thinking about all the photos she’ll lose if she doesn’t retrieve her phone. I tell her no one wants an iPhone 5. It’s 7:28, and we’re waiting to hear about the bag. “We can still make the van,” says Finley. “No, Finn. We can’t.” We stick around to await our lost item.

Five minutes later, an employee delivers Fi’s bag. Her phone is there. It’s all there. I order an Uber, and Manayil rolls up in his Lexus. An actual luxury car. The ride home costs 50 AED.

We catch three hours of sleep before our 12:30 am wakeup call. By 1:30, we’re back at the Dubai airport, navigating a stream of sleepwalking travellers. At 3:30 am, we’re airborne again, this time heading to Milan.