Randy — Escapade @ Al Gharoud
Part 1 of 3 part series
It is Friday morning, the rest day and my day off. The time is seven. My partner is fast asleep. I slide off the bed, careful not to make any noise should I wake my partner. In my sleeping gear, the boxer shorts, I come down the apartment’s lift to the car park on the ground floor, get into my car and drive off.
I am heading to pick up Randy, my friend. Randy is also my partner’s brother. We go a long way back in Sri Lanka to school-going days. I knew him long before I met my partner. Randy is this cheerful guy. He knows to laugh at anything. Simple things. He is a great company. When he visits us on Friday, we have fun, go shopping and eat out. He sleeps over at our tiny apartment on Fridays. I love when Randy visits. He is like a brother.
I am racing in my Mitsubishi Colt towards the workplace where Randy works. I love my car, my first-ever, a manual-geared, white-painted beast, bought with my savings. Randy works at the Dubai international hotel, between the Al Gharoud area and the airport. The route I take is via the Al Gharoud highway.
There are no cars, commercial traffic, trucks, or the like at this early hour. Among the morning mist, I see the gardeners tending to the plants in the wide median strips in the middle of the carriageway. They are watering and pruning the plants before the searing mid-day heat. I pass them and cross the Al Gharoud bridge over Dubai Creek.
At the hotel, Randy gets into my car. Randy’s latest craze is Lionel Richie, the superstar. He listens to Richie’s songs the whole time. All Night Long, Hello and Stuck on You songs played 24x7 everywhere and on Dubai Radio. Randy's Lionel Richie cassette he bought from the Thomson store goes with him wherever he goes. Randy leaves the cassette on the car’s dashboard. We take off towards Falcon roundabout in Bur Dubai, where my apartment is.
Randy’s work is exciting. Full of fun. Randy talks about what happened at the hotel the night before. I enjoy this chatter, racing back home with no traffic at this hour in the morning. I go over the bridge and take a sharp turn turning to Al Gharoud highway, veering my steering wheel, screeching Colt’s small wheels.
Turning, I can see Randy’s Lionel Richie cassette slipping fast on my right. It is veering towards the open car window on Randy’s side. In that split second, my right hand has a mind of its own. Lionel Richie cannot go out of my car window. My right hand leaves the steering wheel and extends, trying to hold onto Randy’s prized possession. My grip on the steering wheel is now wobbly. I lose control of the car with one hand on the steering wheel. In a split second, my poor Colt ascends the concrete buffer and lands on the median strip on the highway. It comes to a complete halt, whizbang in the middle of green plants just tendered by the gardeners.
Fortunately, Randy and I have no injuries. Thank you, seatbelts and my instructor from the Dubai police driving school, a man with a thick Scouse accent who indoctrinated specific non-negotiable rules when I learned to drive. Randy and I get out of the car, which stands in the middle of the median strip on the Al Garoud highway. Fortunately, my Colt has no damage. Few plants are damaged. It is as if someone lifted the car and placed it in the median strip. I am relieved and glad that we both are safe. I am lucky that I ascended the strip in a space where there were no gardeners. I am embarrassed that I am now in my boxer shorts in complete public view, standing in the middle of the highway. Helpless and clueless about what to do next.
Our luck, there is no vehicular traffic. The gardeners that I passed earlier come towards us. These tall men, wearing khaki-coloured, dusty salwar kameez, walk quickly. Standing next to me and the car, they are talking to each other in Urdu, which I can hardly understand.
I am still trying to figure out what to do. I remain non-plussed. I cannot drive the car down the barrier because it is too steep for its small wheels. Besides, my driving skills are yet elementary to swing such a complex wheel manoeuvre. I am worried. I have no solution to get out of my dilemma.
The friendly, well-built Pathan gardeners sense my plight. They talk to me, and I reply in my smattering Urdu. They tell me if I stay longer for a rescue, a cop car could come, and I would get arrested. It would be not only me but also Randy. It will not be pleasant. Who wants to be in a Dubai police cell? I have never been in one. I am terrified, a helpless creature waiting to be snatched away.
All this while, Randy is not fazed. He does not get excited, remaining calm, watching this unbelievable drama, and standing by my side.
The helpful gardeners talk amongst each other while both Randy and I look on. They ask Randy and me to stand aside. They get together, one on each corner of my Colt. Talking to each other in Urdu, they coordinate their movements and lift my car. The car is lifted high, astonishing Randy and me with the brute force of these four strong men. They move the car to the highway, placing it on the traffic lane. Fortunately, the highway is quiet. Job done, they smile at Randy and me. They tell me, “Larkay, Jaldi ghar jao” meaning, ‘boys, go home quick’. They say they will fix up the damaged plants.
I am surprised by the gardeners’ quick action. I must leave to avoid arrest. The gardeners insist that I go now. And I have no way to thank these big-hearted souls. Without much money in my wallet, I could only repeatedly thank them while shaking their huge hands. Amongst their cheer, I took off with Randy and drove straight home in my shiny white Colt.
What a drama and a great escape, an experience with my good friend, Randy, in my boxer shorts on the highways in Dubai.
The story is set in the early 1980s, before the writer discovered the art of responsible driving. It is a tribute to the unsung heroes of Dubai, the gardeners who keep Dubai green.
Where is Randy today? Randy and I remain lifelong friends; he is a great uncle to my four kids. They look up to him.
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The images belong to the original owners.
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