Mister Marvellous

Like a welcome oasis in a vast wilderness, an endless dry desert amongst an entire planet of wastelands there were two famous drinking holes in those faraway days in the barren lands – forgotten but content lands on planet earth. Jinns and Ghouls existed on these barren lands; their sardonic powers played with a sane man’s mind and sucked out all the energy from his emancipated body. It was left to the winds of time to haunt the living; people and places which had remained trapped in the empty quarter for an eternity. It was a wasteland where shipwrecked sailors sometimes crawled from the sea and then forever vanished into endless drifting desert sands. Unfortunately, for these lost and wandering souls of the empty places, who misplaced their bodies in the worst place on earth, the lands of Jinns and Ghouls were about to change. The demons could not control the new lust, more powerful than the old content ways. The old ways were about to be abandoned; dissolved by newcomers – foreigners. Ghareeb in Arabic – the outsiders brought new ways. The outsiders continued to bring change in the name of disruptive technology which became normal in the lands of Jinns and Ghouls. Perhaps it was only solution to stop the return of the creeping unwanted desert ghosts of time, but the Jinns and Ghouls watched and waited. As they had always waited from the beginning of time.

“Expansion rules!” the Ghareeb cried. They were fearless without any accountability.

Unfortunately, one day, the day of reckoning would come and the lands of Jinns and Ghouls; will return as it was and had been in previous centuries and origins. The endless empty lands of wandering ancestors, the endless desert sands and howling winds would prevail eventually. Although their subterrain treasures would be exhausted, the Jinns and Ghouls knew one day their true nature would be restored.

Only the ghosts of sweating oilmen heard the whisper of the desert winds barely understandable with false promises of riches and tales of adventure. The truth and the patience of the origins of these land with the spirits of Jinns and Ghouls was hidden from these greedy men.

For those early pioneers working on the Murban and Umm Shaif fields, the days were long and cruel. Living and working between the hammer and anvil of the blistering sun, and the dry barren lands endlessly playing dangerous mind games with their well-being. Dragging those aged old organic carbon fuels desperately screaming to the surface, for the profit of others who were a comfortable safe distance from the austere living conditions, safe from the filthy drillholes.

For the hard-working oilmen, their single day off could not come sooner enough. The common thought amongst all was a cold pint of amber nectar, standing on the bar, waiting to be wafted down a week old, parched throat. Quenching your thirst were not the right descriptive words, it was washing away the damage of the invading sands and winds, which had infiltrated every pore, every part of their dry and dusty body. Leaving their entire body like old Nile parchment, destroying their internal organs like being exposed to a high dose of radiation, and with the consequent shortening of life.

This was the price paid to the Jinns and Ghouls of the empty quarter.

So, naturally the two famous drinking holes became lifesaving in terms of not only the act of thirst quenching but passing time and swopping stories with fellow oilmen. They all stood at the bar slowly blending with the ghosts of time, all to become dust on the wind, and part of nature’s orchestra, the sound when the wind plays with the drifting desert sand dunes.

The Red Lion pub of Dubai was situated just opposite the landing strip, in those days loosely defined by the name - airport. This watering hole as well as the first ever hotel to be built in Abu Dhabi which opened its doors to the unquenching thirst of the masses in the early 1970’s. These two watering holes, modern day oases with beer taps, but serving the same purpose as the tree lined natural ones. These oases served as the epicenter of the expatriate community, where personal networks were established in a rowdy, raucous setting, men relaxing for a moment, before reentering Death Valley or the plains of Armageddon. “Drink up for the memory, and forget there is a ‘morrow – they cried”

Brave pioneers; human souls that venture to the edges of comprehension and beyond.

I was fortunate once to experience the Red Lion pub in the early 1980’s and lived to tell the tale. Friday lunchtime drinking as all assembled from far and wide, queueing outside for the doors to be opened, and the taps to start flowing. The Friday prayers and the normal sermon rant from the mosques heard over loudspeakers had barely finished as the doors opened to yet another praying audience, with one thought in mind – a cold draught beer. I had witnessed something similar in Ireland after Sunday Mass, where Irish pubs and bars are chocked full of people spilling out of churches. After the earlier spiritual exercise, it seems most parts of their bodies were in desperate need of refreshments.

However, this story starts here waiting for my beautiful lady powdering her nose, while we are finishing a meal at Hemmingway’s in the Abu Dhabi Hilton many years later after it was built. Nevertheless, although the hotel was reaching middle age in terms of hotels, it had not lost its charm and attraction.

It was still a welcome oasis, after a hard-working week.

We had come for an evening of gaiety and entertainment at the famous Jazz Bar of the Abu Dhabi Hilton. The Jazz Bar at the Abu Dhabi Hilton never failed to disappoint. After a long week, Thursday night was a thrill, dressing up and expecting to be entertained, either with live music or a good DJ. There was something amazing about dressing up ready to hit the town, something that was a waiting reward, a well-deserved feeling after working tirelessly all week.

I had stayed at the Abu Dhabi Hotel as a guest many times, so I knew from past experiences that there were excellent entertainment options – nothing was better than the Jazz Bar at the Abu Dhabi Hilton it created an amazing, cultured ambience about the place for so many reasons.

The first time I entered through the heavy doors, it was to see the origins of the thumping music, from the relative peace of Hemmingway’s. Although Hemmingway’s at the peak of the night, on the busiest night’s wasn’t ever peaceful, it was equally vibrant. However, someone opened the doors of the Jazz Bar, and a blast; a few bars of loud live music escaped thunderously from the open door. Even a noisy, raucous night in Hemmingway’s could never drown out the sound of the six-piece band or the singer blasting out her chorus.

It was love at first sight. A completely circular room with a comfortable lighting; art deco style, it resembled a roman Amphitheatre, as you stepped down to the cocktail bar. The band played at the highest level of the room, the same level as the entrance, but they faced the audience from behind the cocktail bar. The general framing of the entire place was circular, as tables were placed on the top level, and below on the bar level. When the Jazz Bar became busy, packed; the tables were removed, and the audience danced and swayed to the music, and queue at the cocktail bar to be served. There were servers, but when the room became overcrowded, and the servers became overloaded, the quickest way to order a drink was directly from the bartender.

Thursday night was guaranteed to be packed with people relaxing and enjoying themselves after the working week. The music is a mixture of old school R&B, neo-soul, and jazz, creating an atmosphere that is both lively and intimate. Normally, the session musicians and glamorous female singers were from South Africa. As the crowd became livelier, dancing and applauding some of the best live music in the region, it was always the best plan to struggle towards the bar for a drink. There were bar stools attached to the floor, but there were also gaps between the stools, and under these cramped circumstances, an opportunity was established. Firstly, one had a first-row position to see the stage, secondly the bartenders were available to refill your glass, and most important of all, my beautiful blond partner; she looked like a mixture between Marilyn Monroe and young Kate Winslett, remained wonderfully captive in my intimate embrace.

In amongst all the frivolous chaos of the evening, I looked down at the occupied barstool and found a massive smiling sweating brown face looking up, he looked like Louis Armstrong with huge voluminous lips, the lips of trumpet player, and equal expansive smile. The face came out nowhere, out of the throng of bodies dancing and swaying to the music, waiting to be served, there in the middle of the chaotic revelers was this peering head.

“MARVELLOUS!” The head spoke, and the eyes just sparkled with laughter, and fun, they seemed so much bigger, larger than the entire room, the head appeared to be in self-suspension. The eyes pierced and parted all other visual distractions, and for a fraction in time, it was just the man peering at my glamorous partner, he continued to stare mischievously at her, and then gradually his gaze returned to me, and then the look was at both of us holding each other close.

I looked down at the man’s body, and when he turned his beaming face, there on the edge of the bar was his wooden walking stick.

“MARVELLOUS!” He shouted at nobody but everybody. The sound reverberated around, which was strange as the band played only a few yards behind the bar, the man’s voice penetrated the surrounding loud music.

The word meant much more than a wonderful compliment, the man had taken in the vision of us both, and the word was some sort of magnificent approval, a form of blessing. It separated the couple from the rest of the crowd, and the compliment was meant for their ears alone.

With pink flamingoes and green grasshoppers being whisked and mixed to perfection in the cocktail shakers, right in front of the playing band the night drifted into the early hours of the morning. From experience we knew that the Jazz Bar would shortly wind down, but there was still another lively bar at the other end of the Abu Dhabi corniche.

It became a weekly ritual, of our night’s out. Last orders at Hysteria’s at Al Manzel. A short taxi ride away from the Abu Dhabi Hilton.

At Hysterias, hand in hand we both fought our way towards the bar, and on reaching the bar by squeezing into small spaces in between bodies, struggling in disorderly queue for last drinks of the night. Trying to avoid the disappointment of missing out on the last orders, as the clock ticked towards the end of enjoyable evening. Trying to get the attention of busy bartender, with an order.

“Two sex on the beach please!”

The satisfied feeling, a sigh of relief when the bartender walked away to fulfill the order.

The hustle and bustle of intoxicated crowd, more like a football match than bar, but equally as messy with spilt drinks trying to juggle around the dance floor or jostling for a privileged position at the bar. Only for the foolhardy, or those that would wake in the morning, or the afternoon, with miserable hangovers, and yet another night out. Or those that were young and knew no better, or those with young hearts who should know better.

As I struggled nearer to the bar, with the normal residents on bar stools, either drunk or unable to move because of the traffic forever advanced to the bar, to refill those never-ending glasses and dry throats. I looked down, and the head craned sideways, away from facing the bar, the gleaming sparkling eyes recognized me instantly and again looked towards my glamorous partner.

“MARVELLOUS!” He bellowed like an old bull, as he wanted the whole room to recognize his salutation, his appreciative gaze, and yet again his blessing.

“MARVELLOUS!” This time he took his unhooked walking stick from the bar, and raised it upwards, at the same time raising his head and eyes to the dark ceiling. Everybody around cheered, and the bartenders paused in whatever they were doing.

I was shocked. How did this man move from his position at the Hilton Jazz Bar to the Hysteria? We had come here directly. He must have left unnoticed while we were still enjoying the music at Jazz Bar. It was astonishing, and the thought was sobering. I didn’t mention the incident until we were driving back to the apartment, and then I related the appearance of Mister Marvellous to my beautiful partner.

“Did you see that old man at the bar tonight?” I asked now in the peace of taxi drive home. For the first time I am now able to communicate civilly. No longer requiring sign language or continuous intimate touches of reassurance. All night witnessing fresh young lovers, either on a first date, or a first meet is like watching cave men in their early stages of foreplay, holding their desiree tight, close by in case another challenger or predator takes your girl away.

“What old man?” She replied.

“There was an old man with walking stick at the bar in the Jazz Bar and then again at Hysterias. How he managed to get from one to the another, I will never understand. He was a lookalike for Louis Armstrong. He had eyes for you darling, like most of the men tonight.” I said still trying to digest the vision and sound of the old man’s appearance twice in one night.

“You saw Mister Marvellous?” She replied incredulously, suddenly her relaxed state of mind caused by the colourful cocktails started to peel away, and she moved from my embrace and searched my face looking for clues to her question.

“Yes! That’s what he came saying after this long stare, he felt like he was looking beyond the bar, but he stared at you for such a long time. It was though he knew you. Kept repeating the same word MARVELLOUS – MARVELLOUS continuously. Then he was sitting at the bar of Hysteria. It was strange. How did he make it from one bar to another, he must have left the Jazz Bar before us, and then how did he always manage to get the best seat in both places.” A lot of my conversation was now coming out without thinking; I was having a conversation with myself.

“He’s a Jinn!” She said; even the taxi driver recognized the word, and I could see he was interested in the conversation coming from his passengers.

“He’s not real, he’s a Jinn!” She repeated.

“I hope you bought him a drink, otherwise you are cursed.” She said matter-of-factly.