THE FISH MARKET
(This
article was written in 2002. The
fish market has modernized somewhat since then but couldn't be nearly as interesting).
The city of Dubai is divided by a creek into two
parts – Bur Dubai and Deira. This creek, which is actually an estuary – the Arabian Desert being noticeably
deficient in water courses – extends inland for approximately six
kilometers, ending in a Mangrove swamp that is also home to several thousand
Greater and Lesser Flamingos.
Ocean-going dhows and yachts and fishing boats can navigate the creek to
the Garhoud Bridge, about four kilometers. From the mouth of the creek to this bridge exists a busy
world of traditional Arab trading, tourist attractions and towering office
buildings.
Traffic on the creek is busy, led by the
ubiquitous abra, a small wooden dory
with a flat canvas roof stretched over poles set five or six feet in from the
front and back. Many of the abras
are powered by three-cylinder Wankel engines, engines far older than their operators
who, for the most part, are young Pakistanis. The abras are older yet than the engines, their masts of
long ago removed to accommodate a new market, ferrying tourists and commuters up and down the
creek. They were constructed
originally as fishing boats, the weathered oak and pine speaking of an earlier
time.
Near the mouth of the creek sits the Dubai fish market. This most ancient of Dubai’s trading
facilities lies incongruously next to the massive Hyatt Regency Hotel, the
quintessential resort hotel and apartment complex. Two more disparate facilities couldn't be imagined. The fish market consists of a series of long stalls, perhaps
one hundred feet long, each line of stalls covered a low rounded roof. At one end of the market the fruit and
vegetable vendors ply their trade, a wall separating this ‘clean’ business from
the ‘not-so-clean’ business of selling fish. In total the building must occupy the greater part of
an acre. The smell of
fish is strong but not unpleasant and it disappears in the
fruit and vegetable section.
There is a ritual to be followed when buying
fish. At the market entrance, shoppers
first pass a line of scruffily-dressed porters, each with his prized possession, a
wheelbarrow. Unless the shopper
happens to speak Farsi, he’s reduced to selecting a porter by simply pointing
at him. The porter and his
wheelbarrow will fall into step and the adventure begins. The shopper is thinking, “A wheelbarrow? How many fish does he think
I want? Couldn’t he have simply
used a hand basket?” The
answer, of course, is “What would you do
if your liveihood depended upon tips?”
The shopper soon realizes the porter’s not there merely to schlep fish in his wheelbarrow.
With creative hand gestures, head-shaking and a small but useful
vocabulary of English words (“No”, “yes”,
“too old”, “too much”, all of which sound at first like he’s only clearing
his throat), he will offer advice on
the quality, freshness, and price of the fish being considered. Whether the shopper trusts him or not
is up to him. If the porter says “too much”, the shopper is expected to
haggle until he stops saying it.
If the fish vendor resents this kibitzing, it isn’t evident. Rather, it’s all part of the process.
The
variety of fish isn't as extensive as one might think for such a huge complex. Like arab cuisine, the choices are limited. The big sellers are hammour (a kind of grouper and the
most popular fish in Dubai), klngfish (much like halibut), sherry (maybe red
snapper?), tuna, yellowtail (an amberjack), pomfret (a butterfish), and sardines. Shrimp are prominent and come in a variety of sizes. A kilo of good-sized prawns will cost
around 70 dirhams (about $ 18.00).
Needless to say, at that price, western expats tend to eat a lot of
prawns.
The noise level in this cavernous room is
high. The fishmongers, eager to
sell a rapidly deteriorating product, are clamorous and persistent. They will thrust a fish under the
shopper’s nose, jabbering about its freshness, showing him the redness of the
gills. It helps the shopper immensely
to have a firm idea about what he or she is there to buy. Distraction comes easily. The mongers lasso prospects with
their eyes as if discovering their long-lost best friend, then quickly move on
to the next prospect when sensing interest is tepid and aimed elsewhere. Their resilience is admirable. Shoppers jostle with careening carts
full of ice and more fish. The
politeness shown by those behind the counter is not shared by the workers in
the aisles. Destinations must be
reached on time.
When shopping is finally completed (the shopper is sllghtly exhausted from
fending off the mongers and the cart pushers and he’s beginning to look upon
his porter as the best friend he’s ever had in a tough situation), the porter
leads the shopper to the fish cleaning room. Westerners first experience with this cleaning room is breathtaking,
a walk into a medieval abattoir. Nothing
has prepared them for the squalor of this room. The relatively inoffensive
odors of the market give way to the more pungent reek of entrails, blood, and
sweat. Perhaps 20 metres square,
the cleaning room has an aisle down one side where shoppers wait while having
their fish gutted and cleaned. The rest of the room consists of about 5 columns and 5
rows of stone or concrete tables, each about 3 feet square and rising some 8 to
10 inches off the floor. Upon each
of these tables squats an Asian worker dressed in a shalwar kameesh, the habit
of choice for sub-continent workers.
The shalwar kameesh is a long white (usually) tunic over a loose-fitting
white pair of trousers. They look
impractical but are practically universal among the Pakistani poor. The ones
being worn by these fish cleaners are filthy. The shopper vows to clean and cook his fish well. Some of the cleaners
wield knives, but most are using only a sharpened slab of metal, roughly 10
inches wide and 6 to 8 inches long. These “tools” could well be leftover from
the beginning of the Iron Age. It’s
astonishing to see such primitive items in the 21st century.
Sitting on their haunches, the cleaners work
quickly and efficiently, scattering the fish guts and prawn shells onto the
concrete floor where another worker hoses the waste into a gutter. It is a scene out of a Bosch painting. Like the porters. the cleaners
work for tips. The western mind
cannot fathom the experience of sitting for 10-12 hours a day, every day, on
those concrete tables, squatting amid the viscera and fish extremities, and brandishing an almost-neolithic tool – for tips. Neither the human mind nor the human
body were made to be used like this. Who said we were civilized?
‘How much?’ the shopper asks his porter when the
cleaner hands back his purchases, a small hammour and a half-kilo of shelled prawns (deveining not included). He holds up his hand and spreads his
fingers. 5 Dirhams (about $1.50). Returning to the parking lot, the shopper hands his
porter 10 dirhhams. Tipping in
Dubai is a tricky business. Most service personnel live solely on tips (waiters
are paid a salary, but most waiters will tell you this is in theory only –
there’s no law that says the restaurant owner has to pay. So they don’t). The porter smiles and nods his
head. The shopper has no idea if
the amount is sufficient and the guilt comes easily. He know it’s a pittance but he’s also constantly
barraged with the ex-pats conventional wisdom, “It’s what they expect. We
don’t want to upset the economy now do we?” The eternal tourist dilemma. In any event, the shopper is sure his porter didn‘t glare at
him. He didn’t, did he? No, he didn’t. Just get in the car and go. Don’t look back.
The hammour and prawns are delicious.
Robert
Alan Davidson
2002
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