THE FISH MARKET
(This article was written in 2002. The fish market has modernized somewhat since then and isn’t nearly as interesting).
The creek divides the city of Dubai into two parts – Bur Dubai and Deira. The creek, which is actually an estuary – the Arabian Desert being noticeably deficient in fresh 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 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 is the Dubai fish market. This most ancient of Arab merchant facilities lies incongruously next to the massive Hyatt Regency Hotel, the quintessential resort hotel and apartment complex. 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-smelling' business from the ‘not-so-clean-smelling’ business of selling fish. In total the building must occupy the greater part of an acre.
There is a ritual to be followed when buying fish. At the market entrance shoppers first pass a line of shalmar-kameez-clad porters and their wheelbarrows. Unless the shopper happens to speak Farsi, he’s forced to select a porter simply by pointing at him. The porter and his wheelbarrow will fall into step and the adventure begins. You’re 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 you’re livelihood depended upon tips?”
And you soon realize, he’s not only with you to schlep your fish. 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 just clearing his throat), he will offer advice on the quality, freshness, and price of the fish you are considering. Whether you trust him or not is up to you. If he says “too much”, you’re expected to haggle until he stops saying it. If the fish vendor resents this kibitzing, he doesn’t show it.
The variety of fish is fairly extensive. The big sellers are hammour , klngfish (much like halibut), sherry (maybe red snapper?), tuna, yellowtail, pomfret, 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 rapidly deteriorating product, are clamorous and persistent. Some will thrust a fish under your nose, jabbering about its freshness, showing you 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.
When you are finished buying the porter leads you to the fish cleaning room. Our first experience with this cleaning room was breathtaking, a walk into a medieval abattoir. Perhaps 20 metres square, the cleaning room has an aisle down one side where customers wait while having their fish gutted and cleaned. The rest of the room consisted of about 5 columns and 5 rows of stone tables, each about 3 feet square and rising some 8 to 10 inches off the floor. Upon each of these tables squatted an Asian worker dressed also clad in a shalwar kameesh. Given the nature of the work, the clothing is filthy and Western sensibilities are slightly rocked. How badly do I want this fish? A few of the fish-cleaners wielded knives, but most were using a sharpened slab of steel, roughly 10 inches wide, leftover “tools” from the beginning of the Iron Age.
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 Dante. 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 wielding a tool forged in a long-forgotten epoch of history – for tips. Who said we were civilized?
‘How much?’ I ask my porter when the cleaner hands back my purchases, a small hammour and a half-kilo of shelled prawns (You’re on your own for deveining). He holds up his hand and spreads his fingers. 5 Dirhams (about $1.50). Back at my car I hand my porter 10 dirhams. Tipping in Dubai is a tricky business. Most service personnel live solely on tips (we’re told 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. And don’t think of quitting and going elsewhere – the owner has the “employee’s” passport and he or she can do nothing without his say-so).
My man smiles and nods his head. I have no idea if the amount is sufficient but the guilt comes easily. We know it’s a pittance but we’re 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?” We know that this drivel is a hangover from the “Sun Never Sets” glory days but too often cravenly comply. I’m going to upset the economy by over-tipping? In a land where extremes of wealth and poverty both flourish, this can’t be a bad thing.
Anyway, my porter didn‘t glare at me. At least, I think so. He didn’t, did he? No, I’m sure. But, just in case, I don’t look back.
The hammour and prawns were delicious.
Robert Alan Davidson
Dubai, 2002
