They start the same way, usually. With the line everyone in the city will recite fondly. “al abwab- tughlaq, doors closing”.
Expats climbing in. Maids, drivers, gardeners, interns. From the scorching heat to clean, pristine, air-conditioned buses.
Most know the metro timings by heart. And each other's names. They know that a 6-minute delay on the bus or an extra traffic light is the difference between them missing the green line interchange at 7:30am and entering into the peak rush-hour crowds that’ll add another 18 minutes to their commute, which’ll end in a boss inevitably asking “why are you late?”
They won’t know how to speak Arabic, and most only speak broken English, but they’ll tell you exactly which exit you need to take from Burjuman, and which is the fastest way out of the Business Bay metro station.
The security guards at each station, intimidating at first with their crisp uniforms complete with shades and mouthpieces will soon start wishing you good morning. A month into taking public transport, you’ll know the difference between fresh and reheated cheese and zaa’tar manousheh, and you’ll convince the staff at the cafes near the ticket stations to let you skip the queues. Despite being Indian yourself, you’ll let everyone mispronounce ‘kadak’ while ordering chai and you’ll smile at how the numerous nationalities have collectively learnt that ‘adrak’ is good, and Rainbow Milk is even better.
The women’s cabin at 7am on the red line to Emirates Towers is a sight- each woman dressed to the nines, wearing slippers, carrying their heels in bags, and waving pink portable fans in their faces. At 9pm on the way back, they’ll call their friends to catch up, complaining about their husbands, bosses and colleagues while the rest of the cabin subtly eavesdrops in. It’s standing room only, if you’re lucky.
This is Dubai.
Here, the metros are faster than the Ferraris. The red line runs at 110km/hr, with trains between 2 to 8 minutes. The Bugattis on the roads beneath them travel at 150km/hr, on roads filled with more Bentleys, Range Rovers, Porsches and Patrols, averaging 25-minute commutes on good days.
I once saw someone hire a cleaner on the bus from the MOE to Arabian Ranches.
I’ve exchanged LinkedIns with people who tell me they’ve just moved to Dubai, feeling alone in the city that never sleeps, out of place with the glamor, struggling to manage expenses and fluctuating exchange rates.
A woman on the red line once pulled out a bandaid from her bag after noticing my shoebite and insisted I keep it.
And then there are the ones who haven’t been home in years. A Filipino woman told me my lipstick looked nice, asked if I was interning, and then showed me pictures of her children back in the Philippines. She hadn’t seen them for three years, but the smile on her face showed not a hint of dismay.
Another woman, a Syrian, told me how she moved here with her family after the civil war. “This is our home now”. And it was.
They say “Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up, knowing it must outrun the slowest gazelle or else it will starve to death. Every morning, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must outrun the fastest lion, or else it will be killed.” The ruler here once famously said “In Dubai, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a lion or a gazelle. When the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”
Everyone talks about the Dubai lifestyle, and how diesel has long since been replaced with Diesel. Where people buy gold from ATMs and where red soles on sidewalks are the norm. “Dubai-it” is now a term. It means ‘to achieve extraordinary excellence in record time’. Nobody talks about how the people who “Dubai-it” aren’t in the Patrols, they’re on the metro above. The one that’s faster than the Ferraris.
And honestly, this city has a way of rewarding these people. The people who catch the 7:15am metro to work, carrying their laptops, lunches, lives, knowing that in Dubai, the metros are faster than the Ferraris, and the red line that takes you into the financial heart of the city takes you closer to success with every 5 dirham ride.