I described to Ismael the detective work I had done that day on the subject of ferrymen. I tried to explain in British Council Level 3 how potent the image of the ferryman has been for Western mythology and art. The symbolic figure crops up in the legends of not just the Greeks and Romans, but also the Norse, the Irish, the Japanese, and many other cultures. Imagine the barrier that a deep river presented to travellers in antiquity, and what an indispensable service the ferryman provided. Storytellers amplified his passage from here to there to express concepts of life and death, fate and the existence of an afterlife.
More pertinent was my discovery that the archetypal ferryman myth originated from the Middle East. Mesopotamia was the early cradle of civilisation, and it was there thousands of years ago that the original creation myths evolved. These epics provided source code for the stories of Adam and Eve, Noah, and many other parables which were eventually adapted to the sacred traditions of the Middle East.
The mother of all epic poems was that of Gilgamesh, the first great hero king, with much of the actual text deciphered from caches of clay tablets excavated from Sumerian, Assyrian and Babylonian sites. Gilgamesh set out on mankind’s first mythic odyssey to discover the secret of immortality. At a crucial juncture of the story, the hero must pass over the waters of death to paradise. There he would find the answer to his dilemma from Utnapishtim the Wise, he of a thousand year life, he who had captained a massive boat that survived the deluge.
To cross the treacherous waters, Gilgamesh had to persuade the ferryman Urshanabi to violate his contract with the patriarch. In the same metaphorical vein, the Greeks had the ill-fated Orpheus attempt to persuade Charon to break his oath never to transport the living across the Styx to Hades, the motive being to glimpse the lovely Eurydice.
I was excitedly explaining these stories to a somewhat confused Ismael as I sipped the last of my turbo-charged Turkish coffee. Then I spied our modern Urshanabi mooring his boat along the embankment. We went down quickly to join him, and indeed the ferryman looked petulant. I apologised for the misunderstanding and paid overgenerously for the previous evening’s outing, whereupon he somewhat reluctantly agreed to transport me again to the other side. (When Orpheus failed at the same effort of persuasion, he met his dismembered end at the hands of jealous maidens. As for myself, sad to say, no enchanting Eurydice awaited upon the other bank, but happily no rejected suitors with violent intent on the other!)
We embarked as we had the night before. The trip seemed less a voyage into the unknown now that the other bank could be seen clearly across the channel. “Abdullah, how did you start working on the Creek?” He grunted as he quickly positioned the skiff to ride the rough wake from one of the wooden cargo ships charging past us. “After I finished with the well, I fished for several years, and then an old ferryman wanted to return home to his village. I took over his boat, this same one. That was thirty years ago.”
“Is the boat yours now?” “No, all the abra ferrymen rent their boats from the locals who then sponsor our work visas. When I first started, it was a dirham a day to rent the boat. Business was good back then because there weren’t any of these bridges or tunnels. I still rent from the same man, but the price has gone up to seven a day. The old Emiratis who own all the boats still come down to Creekside every morning or early evening to sit with their friends, so I see my sponsor then. He’s a good man.
“I always work late at night and then the early morning from 5 to 8. I only carry passengers, although sometimes I transport their cartons too. I know all the abra pilots, because when they want to go to and from their boats anchored offshore, it’s been me taking them all these years.”
I wanted to return back to where we had left his story the night before. “What was life like in Dubai when you first arrived?” “Oh people were much friendlier then. Now the man who has property and money says to the other people around him, keep your distance. Dubai was better when everyone was the same, when there weren’t so many differences.
“Years ago, there were always ten to fifteen fishing boats anchored at Shindagah which were from Lengeh near my village, so I had many friends to talk with. Every afternoon we would sit together to repair the nets and talk about work and life.”
A voice shouted from one of the anchored abras. Abdullah rowed over to pick up an Indian mechanic who had been repairing an engine. We dropped him on the other shore and then drifted out to the abra anchorage and nestled between two boats as we talked. I tried to find the right words to ask an indelicate question. “When you first realised how money bought respect, did you think that you wanted to become a rich man?” Abdullah shrugged and rested his arms on the oars. “No, it wasn’t my fate. I’m happy with what I have. God has blessed me and my family.”
I was zeroing in on the motive that entices expats to venture far from home, namely, the ambition to have more. “But Abdullah, did you achieve everything that you wanted in Dubai?” He paused after my question was translated for him. “No,” he admitted matter-of-factly, “but I have gotten what I was meant to have. I am content with that. Everyone wants a kilo, and some get that, but some get more and some get less. What I have received is my kismet, so what am I to do except be happy with my lot?”
“Do you think that people are better off with a simple life? You come and go as you please, maybe that’s an advantage over the man with many things.” “God gives us everything we need because He made us, whether it be 15 or 20 or 100 dirhams. Thank God, I am content! Big people have big problems. In the Koran it is written that your property will be your enemy.”
The ferryman’s fingers played with the knots on a hemp rope. He looked up at Ismael. “The sea is sometimes up and sometimes down. People have extra and others have little, but no one really knows from where his daily bread will come. Nobody knows when he will die. Only God knows everything.” He turned and looked back at Ismael’s cafe. “Are we almost finished now? I’m hungry and the cafeteria is going to close soon.”
I laughed out loud when his request was translated. Our pious Charon was encrusted with the salt of the earth. No platitudes from this ferryman! I felt like hugging him, but I didn’t want to upset the little boat. “Sure, just let me off on this side here.” He took up the oars and with a couple of deft strokes manoeuvred us to the embankment. “What do you think about the Creek now, after thirty years of ferrying passengers from one side to the other?”
“The Creek and the sea have moods, it’s like a woman in a way. They’re never really the same day by day. When I first came here years ago, the Creek seemed tired. It was silting up. Now the Creek is full of activity, all this coming and going. You see people from everywhere, east and west, and there are jobs for everybody, rich men and poor men.”
“Will you miss it when you finally leave?” Abdullah grasped a stanchion on the quay with one of his iron hands to steady the boat so I could disembark. “The Creek is a place of work for me, nothing more, nothing less. When I leave I will miss it though, because we have worked together for so many years. It’s been my home.”
I fished out my wallet to give the ferryman enough dirhams to make him feel that I hadn’t wasted his time. I hesitated to ask a question that had been lurking in the shadows since I met him. I couldn’t resist. “Abdullah, sorry to ask, but during all these years, have you ever transported the dead to be buried on the other side?” The old man looked over at me in surprise as I squatted on the quay. “No, of course not. There’s cemeteries on either side, so if someone dies on one side, he’s buried there.”
That bit of logic took the wind out of my imagination. Ismael looked relieved when I stood up and said my thank you's. The two of them pushed off into the current. I called out goodbye with one of the few Irani words that I knew, “Khodahafez!” Ismael waved and the small boat faded into the darkness. I turned to begin my lonely walk home. 

Vincent White is a strategic consultant and freelance writer resident in Dubai. Comments are welcome at: vfwhite@hotmail.com