The urban hum of car engines buzzing up and down the streets during the wee hours of the morning.
Alive, lost and drunk.
As I exited the car park on the bottom floor of the brothel I’d just escaped, I wasn’t sure if I came from the left or from the right. The parking garage exited into an alleyway. No recognizable landmarks to be found on either side.
To my left – a criss-crossing of alley-ways and darkness.
To my right – homeless people and sadness… and darkness.
How did I get here? (see: Oblivious in Dubai: Part 1)
Must get back to the hotel, my flight is in about six hours. I wish I owned a watch.
I go right.
My inebriated corporeal container stumbles down the alley – between the hoards of homeless-sons-of-the-great sub-continent.
No fear. These guys are here for work; sending money back to their families in India, Bangladesh, Nepal; among many other places.
The locals treat them as sub-human.
Sub-humans from the sub-continent. It’s unfortunate that the artificial lines people place between themselves still exist. It’s not even a matter of racism anymore – it’s class-ism. The economically disadvantaged being bent over by the economically prosperous.
Drunk, white and business casual I be. As I light a cigarette, they don’t even notice me.