This story weaves, because the fate so willed it, a piece of the life of some people who unknowingly, unwittingly, have been important to me. Spectators and players in a fantastic and memorable time.
What if there were they with their simple humanity to prepare the ground for the facts after I suffered a lot more.
Hanna, Joseph, Mihret, Ismail, Asif, Saddam, Mustafa, Noemi, Chao-Nin and Helena.
not forget you.
left the warm sea and white, almost a mirror, makes movements slow and softly breaks, you might say shame, against the massive stone ordered. On the right the glittering skyline of a theory of modern skyscrapers, which seems interminable. Lights on in the fourth to fourteenth and the fortieth floor. They are almost all owned by powerful companies that extract oil and gas and selling it to the world that can not help it.
The show is really exciting.
In between, Corniche Road.
Fa watershed between the Indian Ocean and the bastions of modern civilization, technology, visions of architects and engineers of hyperbole from around the world there is no data conference. And they told Release, no doubt, as would children with buckets color and large sheets of paper. Would like sailors in a brothel after months at sea.
Corniche Road is a breeze in the wind sail between the port and the Emirates Palace, a lot of miles to the east.
In all six lanes, three in each direction, along the seafront. Illuminated by a myriad of street lights, interrupted by a succession of traffic lights, crossed by a snake of cars that will not stop flowing even at night. The Pakistani
driving like a madman, impassive, without opening his mouth. Nails, and restores the last moment to avoid gas safety cameras camouflaged among the palms, which he knows by heart the location. Cars overtake on the left and right. Roaring race cars with engines of eight cylinders on all gasoline, all with automatic transmission. Here there is simply no diesel and the manual transmissions have only taxis that are all of Pakistani Toyota two thousand. Here
public transport do not exist, as we Westerners understand them, at least. No buses, trolley buses, buses. No metro, no trains. Only
taxi. Many, many, thousands of taxis that run continuously. Human blood from the veins that feed each orthogonal fabric of the city that pulsates. Taxi driving with a Pakistani. Taxi
white with green stripes and gold, with a man in a white robe and sandals and a dark beard that can reach the chest. Men who have no age. Blacks and men with eyes like deep wells of which you can not see the bottom.
Men of which can be difficult to maintain the look of defiance, the meek, for the most part. Men
disenfranchised, exploited. Men who are worth less than the taxi driving for fourteen, sixteen hours a day. The sea
tonight seems more black and the lights from the buildings look as good as my taxi driver takes me down to the Corniche Road. I look out and do not stop liking what I see.
The geometries of the Arab public gardens that adorn the coast, with the difference in pools connected by canals and fountains set like precious stones, beautiful creations that a silent army of other derelicts, the Horn of Africa this time, maintains, and by night and every night. Planting grass on the sand the desert. Grass with that infernal heat burns and should be replaced after a few days. The show emerald green grass and flowers never ends. Powered with constant irrigation with giant desalination plants, which make the sea water sweet to taste. The taxi has
seats fabric coated with plastic and thick, like copritovaglia garden, sweaty back while the rest of the body freezes. The Pakistanis keep the air conditioning to the whole barrel, these conditions are bombs with plate heat exchangers under the floor of the car to respond to fifty degrees in the shade and 80% humidity, the heat hit you get when you get is really strong.
"My friend, Could You Please set the cooling down? Am gettin'sick "
He screams" What? No Understand, Pakistan Pakistanis! "
" Fuck you and your mother, here, my friend Understand. "Simply does not like to see.
The radio broadcasts continue the litany of the muezzin and the music they listen to all the religious holy days, virtually never get out.
The dashboard cover it with a carpet pad that appears, usually red or green, or yellow gold, with long fringes and some tinkling ammenicolo. On the back of the front headrests are two plates in Arabic and English. One reads: Driver, and gives the name and picture of the Pakistani, the other states: Owner and shows only the name and address of the owner of the Arab taxi. One does not have a Pakistani taxi. The guide for a salary for which we will not put either foot out of bed in the morning, leaving us to die of starvation.
The Pakistanis are trying to fuck a few cents by always pretend not to have change. Or refer a little at night, after 23.00, when the law allows him to turn off the meter and then the fare is agreed before and haggled with a smile.
The Pakistanis, here in this compartmentalized society, without caste, are the last link in the chain. I can only imagine the feuds and the Middle Ages. But today, the Lords have i-Phone in my pocket and Panerai wrist and at least a Porsche Cayman. And possess slaves of the modern era, including, inevitable, a Filipino Maid House. The Pakistani
turn right and reverse, stopping on the hill is the main entrance of the Hilton Corniche Hotel. I put some coins in the hands of taxi drivers who thanks him with a groan and his eyes lowered.
Muskarat opens the car door and gets me. "Good evening Sir, how are you?". The
I winked while the heavy double windows open onto the concierge of pink marble, lit by a crystal chandelier simply enormous and beautiful.
I go in a hurry, are waiting for me for dinner.
Saddam, call the elevator, I can press ahead and call me before.
0 comments:
Post a Comment