Passion or Obsession?
Chapter 1: That Fateful Day
Chapter 2
I grew up in the US state of Louisiana--a long way from Dubai. The trail that led me from there to here was uncharted, but purposeful nonetheless. It was guided by a yearning for adventure--not the sort that entailed daring feats or great risk, but by that which found fascination in the simple and the ordinary. The only requirement for my journey was that there be a pervasive element of the unfamiliar.
In the culture that was Louisiana's, the simple and ordinary were there but not that most intriguing element of unfamiliarity. The pictures I grew up with were only black and white--that is, people were defined as such. In the Louisiana of the time, the US South and perhaps the nation-at-large, people were distinguished from one another simply and arbitrarily on the basis of race; one was either black or white. Multi-faceted, multi-dimensional individuals of multiple heritage were all simply black or white. How peculiar for me that I did not seem to fit very well in either camp. I was called black, but as far as I could see I didn't speak black, I didn't walk black and I generally didn't act black. Then again, there was no way I could be white. I felt both morally and intellectually disconnected from white. White had dispossessed and oppressed a great many of the world's long-suffering colored peoples.
It is doubtful that I understood in exactly those, but by the age of 10 I was well-aware that the world was much wider than America and its 50 states. I used to draw and color-in maps of the world, where jagged borders made countries fit together like pieces of a puzzle. I knew at age 11 that Vietnam was a place to fear. It was the early 1970's, when the US was engaged in what seemed like endless peace talks with North Vietnam. It seemed that the only consequence of that was a war that got worse or was prolonged.
I discovered at the age of 12 what a foreigner really looked and spoke like. It was a boy named Mazda, from Iran, who had enlightened me. He appeared like a colorful Christmas ornament in a school that was otherwise only black and white. He was from one of those far away places that I had only known through my colored maps. Although he was different, I felt he was like me. He too could not be crudely defined as either black or white. There was no paradigm into which he fit, just as there was none into which I fit.
At age 13... and the story goes on. The trail that I chose led me out of Louisiana and on to Vietnam. I discovered a different language, different foods, different attitudes, different smells, and the list went on. It was a journey, however, not of the body but of the heart and mind. At the age of 13 I had met some among the first groups of Vietnamese refugees to make it to the United States, upon the inevitable capitulation of their war-torn country. Even more than with Mazda, I became transfixed by the Vietnamese community. Theirs was a simpler but more purposeful way of life--or so it appeared to me. They had little upon which to build a new life in the United States, but they worked hard and achieved much. The experience was both different and intriguing.
From the little Vietnams I had encountered in the US I went on to Japan. This time it was an actual journey to another country, my first landing on foreign soil. I discovered that the Japanese were not at all simple, yet theirs was a country of ordinary folk. Every one in Japan strove to be average. There was valor in that, whereas anyone who appeared to be too different was subject to ridicule. While there was a sameness among them, there was still that pervasive element of the unfamiliar. For 11 years in Japan, even up to my final days, I marvelled at how different and Japanese everything and everyone was.
Ultimately, the trail led to the UAE and more importantly, the Dubai Marina. Sometimes I wondered how I got here and whether or not I had made the right choices. After all, what was simple and ordinary about living in a pricey Marina district full of high-rise towers and other symbols of wealth and class? I couldn't really answer this question although I would argue that I was still being true to my ideals.
In any event, I was becoming passionate about photographing the towers which had rapidly begun to fill the Marina. Each tower would begin as a deep pit in the ground, to only later emerge and then rise up to towering heights. I had to know the name of each one and all the relevant details: who the builder was, how many floors there were, how tall in meters it would be, what the expected date of completion was, etc. With some 200 towers planned, underway or completed, the task of photographing and documenting each was becoming monumental in itself.
Life, however, could not be restricted to one task or a single passion. Mona, meanwhile, was preparing for her return to Egypt. I had never been to her home or even to Egypt. Our acquaintance was based on a sort of camaraderie and mutual respect developed on the job. We were both teachers of English. I was impressed not only by her proficiency in English but also in her adaptability to a foreign, that is, Western culture as well. Although she had never been to the United States, she had studied for some years in the UK--thus her advanced language skills and outlook. When I first met her I neither thought she was Arab nor a non-native speaker of English. The name Mona only added to my confusion.
We had decided to spend her last weekend before leaving at a resort in one of the UAE's quieter emirates. It was at the Al Hamra Fort Hotel and Resort in Ras Al Khaimah. This was a secluded seaside property built in the style of an ancient Arabic fort. The new freehold development of which it was part consisted of a village or community of villas, townhouses and apartments along with the hotel complex. It would be the first visit for either of us to this rather enchanting destination.
It wasn't intended that this excursion would be anything more than a chance for two close friends to get to know each other better and enjoy a nice location. We would stay in adjoining rooms and indulge in some of the hotel's water sports. It ended up being a wonderful trip and the perfect way to see Mona off on her journey back to Egypt. It would be one month before I would see her again.
Mona gone, I had more time to devote not only to my Dubai Marina blogs but to the MAG 218 project--the property that had got me started off on this new adventure. Within days of my initial posting on the topic a few other buyers got in touch with me. One in particular, a gentleman by the name of Abdul Rahim, was especially interested in not only the building project but the unfolding website as well. He was based in Bangalore, India, so did not have the opportunity to, as I did, casually visit the MAG 218 building site or office. Abdul Rahim became a frequent emailer and poster to the website's comments pages. His enthusiasm only added to my own. In due course, I was visiting the MAG 218 site and the Dubai Marina on a frequent and regular basis taking photos and gathering the data needed to keep all my blogs updated.
On one visit I began to chat with some of the laborers onsite at a tower project near the MAG 218. Work on the MAG 218 itself had not yet commenced, and the plot was little more than a cleared-out sand pit. All around the Marina there were other towers and tower plots at various stages of construction. The workers I had found to chat with were friendly and eager to make conversation, even though they had to struggle with the language. The group of five with whom I spoke were all from India.
My first questions to them were about their living and work conditions. That such laborers had it quite rough in the UAE was common knowledge. These men had their fair share of complaints. Chief among them were the crowded conditions in their lodging and that they had no time to take care of daily needs. They awoke at 5 a.m., rode off to the work site at 6 and returned to their lodging at 6 or 7 in the evening. In the few hours they had before bedtime they had to maneuver among the dozen or so men in their crowded sleeping quarters, while scrambling for time in the toilets, showers and kitchens they shared communally. A single building at the lodging site might accommodate several hundred to even 1000 men.
Suddenly a new world was beginning to open up to me in the presumed luxurious Dubai Marina. Each tower that rose would tell a story of wealth and extravagance alongside another of struggle and destitution.
1590 (this post), total 3316 words
Chapter 3: A Walk in the Marina
Chapter 2
I grew up in the US state of Louisiana--a long way from Dubai. The trail that led me from there to here was uncharted, but purposeful nonetheless. It was guided by a yearning for adventure--not the sort that entailed daring feats or great risk, but by that which found fascination in the simple and the ordinary. The only requirement for my journey was that there be a pervasive element of the unfamiliar.
In the culture that was Louisiana's, the simple and ordinary were there but not that most intriguing element of unfamiliarity. The pictures I grew up with were only black and white--that is, people were defined as such. In the Louisiana of the time, the US South and perhaps the nation-at-large, people were distinguished from one another simply and arbitrarily on the basis of race; one was either black or white. Multi-faceted, multi-dimensional individuals of multiple heritage were all simply black or white. How peculiar for me that I did not seem to fit very well in either camp. I was called black, but as far as I could see I didn't speak black, I didn't walk black and I generally didn't act black. Then again, there was no way I could be white. I felt both morally and intellectually disconnected from white. White had dispossessed and oppressed a great many of the world's long-suffering colored peoples.
It is doubtful that I understood in exactly those, but by the age of 10 I was well-aware that the world was much wider than America and its 50 states. I used to draw and color-in maps of the world, where jagged borders made countries fit together like pieces of a puzzle. I knew at age 11 that Vietnam was a place to fear. It was the early 1970's, when the US was engaged in what seemed like endless peace talks with North Vietnam. It seemed that the only consequence of that was a war that got worse or was prolonged.
I discovered at the age of 12 what a foreigner really looked and spoke like. It was a boy named Mazda, from Iran, who had enlightened me. He appeared like a colorful Christmas ornament in a school that was otherwise only black and white. He was from one of those far away places that I had only known through my colored maps. Although he was different, I felt he was like me. He too could not be crudely defined as either black or white. There was no paradigm into which he fit, just as there was none into which I fit.
At age 13... and the story goes on. The trail that I chose led me out of Louisiana and on to Vietnam. I discovered a different language, different foods, different attitudes, different smells, and the list went on. It was a journey, however, not of the body but of the heart and mind. At the age of 13 I had met some among the first groups of Vietnamese refugees to make it to the United States, upon the inevitable capitulation of their war-torn country. Even more than with Mazda, I became transfixed by the Vietnamese community. Theirs was a simpler but more purposeful way of life--or so it appeared to me. They had little upon which to build a new life in the United States, but they worked hard and achieved much. The experience was both different and intriguing.
From the little Vietnams I had encountered in the US I went on to Japan. This time it was an actual journey to another country, my first landing on foreign soil. I discovered that the Japanese were not at all simple, yet theirs was a country of ordinary folk. Every one in Japan strove to be average. There was valor in that, whereas anyone who appeared to be too different was subject to ridicule. While there was a sameness among them, there was still that pervasive element of the unfamiliar. For 11 years in Japan, even up to my final days, I marvelled at how different and Japanese everything and everyone was.
Ultimately, the trail led to the UAE and more importantly, the Dubai Marina. Sometimes I wondered how I got here and whether or not I had made the right choices. After all, what was simple and ordinary about living in a pricey Marina district full of high-rise towers and other symbols of wealth and class? I couldn't really answer this question although I would argue that I was still being true to my ideals.
In any event, I was becoming passionate about photographing the towers which had rapidly begun to fill the Marina. Each tower would begin as a deep pit in the ground, to only later emerge and then rise up to towering heights. I had to know the name of each one and all the relevant details: who the builder was, how many floors there were, how tall in meters it would be, what the expected date of completion was, etc. With some 200 towers planned, underway or completed, the task of photographing and documenting each was becoming monumental in itself.
Life, however, could not be restricted to one task or a single passion. Mona, meanwhile, was preparing for her return to Egypt. I had never been to her home or even to Egypt. Our acquaintance was based on a sort of camaraderie and mutual respect developed on the job. We were both teachers of English. I was impressed not only by her proficiency in English but also in her adaptability to a foreign, that is, Western culture as well. Although she had never been to the United States, she had studied for some years in the UK--thus her advanced language skills and outlook. When I first met her I neither thought she was Arab nor a non-native speaker of English. The name Mona only added to my confusion.
We had decided to spend her last weekend before leaving at a resort in one of the UAE's quieter emirates. It was at the Al Hamra Fort Hotel and Resort in Ras Al Khaimah. This was a secluded seaside property built in the style of an ancient Arabic fort. The new freehold development of which it was part consisted of a village or community of villas, townhouses and apartments along with the hotel complex. It would be the first visit for either of us to this rather enchanting destination.
It wasn't intended that this excursion would be anything more than a chance for two close friends to get to know each other better and enjoy a nice location. We would stay in adjoining rooms and indulge in some of the hotel's water sports. It ended up being a wonderful trip and the perfect way to see Mona off on her journey back to Egypt. It would be one month before I would see her again.
Mona gone, I had more time to devote not only to my Dubai Marina blogs but to the MAG 218 project--the property that had got me started off on this new adventure. Within days of my initial posting on the topic a few other buyers got in touch with me. One in particular, a gentleman by the name of Abdul Rahim, was especially interested in not only the building project but the unfolding website as well. He was based in Bangalore, India, so did not have the opportunity to, as I did, casually visit the MAG 218 building site or office. Abdul Rahim became a frequent emailer and poster to the website's comments pages. His enthusiasm only added to my own. In due course, I was visiting the MAG 218 site and the Dubai Marina on a frequent and regular basis taking photos and gathering the data needed to keep all my blogs updated.
On one visit I began to chat with some of the laborers onsite at a tower project near the MAG 218. Work on the MAG 218 itself had not yet commenced, and the plot was little more than a cleared-out sand pit. All around the Marina there were other towers and tower plots at various stages of construction. The workers I had found to chat with were friendly and eager to make conversation, even though they had to struggle with the language. The group of five with whom I spoke were all from India.
My first questions to them were about their living and work conditions. That such laborers had it quite rough in the UAE was common knowledge. These men had their fair share of complaints. Chief among them were the crowded conditions in their lodging and that they had no time to take care of daily needs. They awoke at 5 a.m., rode off to the work site at 6 and returned to their lodging at 6 or 7 in the evening. In the few hours they had before bedtime they had to maneuver among the dozen or so men in their crowded sleeping quarters, while scrambling for time in the toilets, showers and kitchens they shared communally. A single building at the lodging site might accommodate several hundred to even 1000 men.
Suddenly a new world was beginning to open up to me in the presumed luxurious Dubai Marina. Each tower that rose would tell a story of wealth and extravagance alongside another of struggle and destitution.
1590 (this post), total 3316 words
Chapter 3: A Walk in the Marina
posted by B.D. at Thursday, November 02, 2006
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