I was tuned in to one of Dubai’s prominent radio stations on my way downtown (I had business at Dubai Municipality, where else?). The show host, unusually for him/her, had touched on a sensitive subject: the US-issued list of fourteen countries whose nationals should be subject to close scrutiny at airport security checks. Pure douchebaggery. I’m not sure what’s the exact technical term for that is, though. Both religio- or ethnic-profiling are inaccurate. But then I’m going with 'racial profiling' for the time being (admittedly equally inaccurate, but at least it’s controversial and appealing).
I could sense that the show host has very limited knowledge about the subject; from the kind of SMSs he/she had (chosen?) to read out loud, the overwhelming majority was somewhat supportive of the new security measures. ‘Better to check thoroughly than to get blown up’, or something to that effect, one idiot said. ‘In times like these it’s better to forget about Political Correctness and do whatever necessary to save lives’.
Right.
I shot a quick SMS while I was….. stopped at a traffic light. I said that racial profiling is dumb and discriminatory. Or something to that effect. My message wasn’t read on air. The show host had (instead?) chosen to receive a call from a Pakistani fellow who’s been to Miami recently and had been put through extensive security checks. He said he was cool with that. Wasn’t at all disturbed. The show host agreed with him, will take only few extra minutes of your time….everything is nice and dandy in the world. Bla. Bla. Bla.
I admit that I got a bit angry at this point, I mean, it’s either that the show host was impartial to racial profiling, or had very succinct knowledge about the subject and its implications. I wrote another SMS when I descended the car and was heading toward the waterbus, I said: ‘It’s obvious that you’re a proponent of racial profiling, why not? since it’s basically inflicted on people other than you, innit?’
Now, this message is way too assuming and kind of…what you’d call: ‘mean’. I had no idea whether it’s been read on air or not. It took me couple of hours to finish my business at the DM building and when I got back to the car I changed the station altogether.
Later that afternoon, I got call from a landline I couldn’t identify. And sure enough, it was the radio host telling me he/she’d received the SMS and was wondering ‘where on earth’ (i.e. where the fuck) had I gotten the impression that he/she was a proponent of racial profiling? Now, given that this was my first (off or on air) conversation with a radio show host, I decided to play it cool. No point beating up the dead horse. Besides, you never know what these guys are up to, maybe he/she’s taping the telecon and was intending to play it on air sometime. Or maybe he/she got a dick from their legal department listening intently to the conversation, expecting me to slip so that they can screw me afterwards. Who knows what's up with these weirdos?
So I said I enjoy listening to the station, bla bla. And that racial profiling is a sensitive subject. Probably much more sensitive that he/she’d anticipated. Probably not the best thing to talk about when your job is to receive song requests and dedications. And the tone of the SMSs he/she had read out didn’t do the subject justice, in my humble opinion. Etc. And fainlly I said I might have been rash in my SMS and apologized. We talked for couple of minutes more and then we hung up.
Man, a faint feeling of uneasiness was creeping up on me. Why did I not simply call or send a more.. erm.. 'diplomatic' text? The radio show host really seemed concerned that I got the wrong impression about him/her and probably the station in general. Sure, they have their image to worry about. But then, there’s something personal too here. I did make him/her uncomfortable. And it pisses me off when I make people upset. Sometimes I get this nagging feeling that pokes around my consciousness, I realize that it’s someone I’ve been rude to. And it never stops prickling until I make up with them (....and brother, where to start with that).
Oh well, he/she’s a busy guy/gal and will forget as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. No point fretting over the spilt milk. Trivial stuff shouldn’t occupy great minds.
Yada. Yada.
So under the above context, I’m driving home and feeling a tad guilty as I listen to the radio, although here’s another radio presenter prattling away at a different radio station altogether. I stop at the traffic light, both hands on the wheels and entirely not in the mood for texting anyone. I look at the rearview mirror and I see something that made the hair at the back of my neck stand erect. Fractions of a second later a Mercedes SUV rams into the back of my car. I jerk forward a little, my foot firm on the brake, as I’d learned from past experience. I sigh and step down and walk around to the back, there’s a local lady behind the SUV's wheels. She’s apologizing profusely and sincerely. No problem mam. But we really need to call the police. The damage is minor, but the car, as you see from the logo sticker, is a company car and the insurance won’t pick up the tab unless I duly present a police report at the workshop.
No problem at all for her. The light turns green and I quickly get back and motions for her to follow. We stop at a vacant parking by the road-side and I call the police. Less than ten minutes later they are on the scene (albeit the scene of the parking, not the accident). I have the registration and DL read and in order. The tall policeman picks up the lady’s and saunter towards me. I hand over my papers and get told to ‘go have a seat’. I sit back in my car and watch as some kind of a fuss takes place in the rear view mirror. The senior policeman, the guy who usually sits in the passenger seat of the land-cruiser, steps forward and joins the discussion. Few minutes later he approaches me and I descend again. He offers a handshake and tells me that we have ‘a bit of a problem’. Turns out the other car’s registration is expired. They are, allegedly, unable to write up a report including the details of both cars… since the others’ are missing. He explains to me how the owner of the other car (the husband, that is) is ‘an important man’. I say I don’t have a problem with whatever arrangement he proposes. He gives me what he says is a ‘workshop certificate’, one which I can use to get the car fixed. As for the expenses, don’t worry about it; the other guy will certainly shoulder them. Easy peasy. All the while when this was going down the ‘important guy’ was on the phone with the policeman. I say I’m perfectly fine with the arrangement, just need the phone number of the other guy and the senior policeman, ‘Just in case’.
Now, I’ve lived on and off in four or five cities throughout my life, and-- though those four might be a tainted sample to some people, I’ve come to conclusion that Dubai Police is by far the best law enforcement organization I’ve ever encountered. I’m comfortable with whatever arrangement the policeman is proposing. There is, nonetheless, that prickly jarring feeling that something could go wrong, most probably because of an oversight on my part. Or maybe it’s the radio presenter and what I’d said to him/her. Could these two be related? The policeman asks if there’s anything more he should do and I said why thank you. I shake hands with them and wave to the local lady, she waves back a greeting. Truth be told, she looks quite sympathetic to my plight. We’re probably kindred-spirits and she’s feeling the same kind of guilt for the upset she’d caused me as I did to the radio presenter (although I wasn’t really upset).
I get in the car and drive away. Sure enough, few minutes later, the important man is calling. He introduces himself. The name doesn’t ring a bell at all. The intonations of the voice betray fine education and honesty. He asks if I need any medical attention, and for a while I’m confused as then it hits me that there’s been an accident. I expected an 'important guy' in a hurry, wanting to close a transaction and get it over with. This guy was all apologies and gratitude. We agree to wait until the statement of damages is issued from the workshop, I’d then fax it to him... (he interrupts here, saying only a phone call and a number would be enough.) I leave it at that and promise to call him later. Finally he asks if I need anything else, I said no, he’d been kind enough. He thanks me and hangs up.
I swing by the café and then go home. Now, a healthy dose of vitamin C is an essential dietary component for all heavy smokers. I whip up a glass of lemon juice and sit it by the bedside table. I climb up on bed and start absently surfing online. I googled the important man’s name and, yessir, he’s quite important. Then I remember I needed to go to the gym. I grab my cell phone to check the time. Old habits die hard, even though there are numerous time indicator on the laptop I’d still need to check my mobile or my wrest watch to make sure. My hand accidentally tugs on the sheets and then it snaps back. The phone departs my grip and it flies up in a perfect arch and dives, head first, in the glass of lemon juice. It settles in with a tiny ‘swoosh’ sound and I stare at for a moment, amused, half expecting steam to erupt from the glass. When I spring to action, it’s too late, by the time I get the phone out and switched off, the LED screen is blurry and the tacky liquid had seeped through all the tiny cracks. I sigh and pick up my other cell phone from the drawer. (Girly looking, but hey, who cares). I extricate the sim card from the old one and tuck it in the new one. I carry on surfing for a while and then get up and hustle off to the gym.
Two days later, after burying the bloody cell phone in packet of rice and making sure it dried up, it still ain’t working. Hey, not a big deal. I had all the photos uploaded on the laptop. The music and videos too. The numbers? I guess I’m fine on that front; I got email addresses for most of my friends. I know my family numbers by heart. I have business cards for prospective clients and the current clients can go funk themselves.
But then again, I have a statement from the workshop for cost of repairing the damages, but I have no one to call to get it compensated from. The number of the policeman got lost in the mayhem too. I don’t even have the text message I sent to the radio show to commiserate myself that I’d done nothing wrong. I’m told that the only way I could get the numbers back is by Data Recovery procedure. Somewhat expensive (almost as expensive as getting on the observations deck of Burj Khalifa), but ironically far less expensive than the car repair cost. So I’ll probably be doing it. And hey, the important man sounded like a real honest guy, maybe he’d give me a call himself if I didn’t call him for a while.
Is Karma being a bitch? Has it been racially-profiling me?
Who knows. Maybe I should just stop text-messaging while driving.
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P.S. on a brighter note, I can report to you that I'd won the Burj Khalifa (formerly Burj Dubai) Sweepstakes. Secret Dubai had been mighty kind and made good her promise. I now have an Amazon gift voucher worth 100$.... Lucky bastard, innit? ;)