“My Pashtun Rabbi,” named to Kirkus Reviews “Best Books of 2018,” tells the story of David Eden, a Jewish-American journalist who was hired as the “journalism expert” at United Arab Emirates University — and nobody knew he was Jewish (except the American who hired him!). This all takes place during the 2008–09 school year when Obama was elected U.S. President, the world’s economy collapsed ushering in The Great Recession, and a bloody war broke out in Gaza. Get your copy at Amazon or at mypashtunrabbi.com.
Here’s an excerpt:
The Richest Horse Race in the World
On the way to the Richest Horse Race in the World, Tony’s Porsche Carrera 996 Turbo’s speedometer tipped past 250 kmph. The car snugly hugged the even pavement on E-66 taking us from Al Ain to Dubai on the last Saturday in March.
What was taking us there was the Dubai World Cup, which boasted more than US$21 million of prize money. This would be the last time that event would be held at Naq Al Sheba — that horse track was slated to be replaced the following year by the new billion-dollar Meydan racing complex being built next door, the biggest and most-expensive in the world. Natch. I felt like the old sports editor again going to find an end-of-an-era story at a singular event. I might not have made it to a camel race yet (getting up at five a.m. didn’t appeal to me), but there was no way I was going to miss this extravaganza.
The marine blue Porsche purred along E-66 passing six-wheel Mitsubishi trucks hauling camels, luxury cars, and South Asian men hitchhiking. Tony and I had been trying since the fall to gauge the depth of the world’s economic crash. The only way was to piecemeal the story reading between the lines in the Emirates’ English-language press, keeping an ear to the Pashtun grapevine, picking up anecdotes and observations. The Khaleej Times had slipped into a recent story about new work visas the fact that the government had cancelled 400,000 foreign worker permits — essentially exiling about 10 percent of the expat workforce. We’d heard reliable accounts about expats dumping luxury cars at Dubai’s airport as they fled the country. Tony stole this car, the 2003 Dubai Porsche Show Car of the year, for a song from a man who was fleeing.
A line I’d not thought of in a good four decades since English Lit slithered into my head: I am Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
OK, what the hell. I added the tag this time. “Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
“Just as you say,” Tony answered. He glanced across at me, apparently impressed a Clevistani Jew had heard of Shelley. “Castles in the sand.”
“Blowing in the wind.”
Our plan was to be at Naq Al Sheba by 5 p.m. We had started planning our day at the races two weeks earlier. I’d investigated VVVIP packages but we decided against paying from 1,500-to-more-than-3,000 dirhams to sit in the assorted grandstand venues drinking with expat dandies. Instead we’d attend for free with the general public. Rub elbows with the “P’s.”
Despite a perpetually blue sky that rarely offered a cloud for shade, Nad Al Sheba sat bathed in a gray atmospheric haze and steady drizzle. We parked in a remote lot. That venue offered a clear view of Dubai’s skyline, punctuated by the needlepoint top of the Burj Dubai. Rising adjacent to Nad Al Sheba were dozens of yellow construction cranes, engaged in building its replacement, Meydan. Next year, the new hippodrome would host its first Dubai World Cup. A project to be completed at all costs.
A free shuttle bus deposited us near Gate 2 into a teaming mass of the “common people.” Disembarking into the light rain, we were greeted by an Emirati policeman hollering “Khallas! Khallas!”He wasn’t singling us out, but directing the order at the wet throng pushing, shoving, line jumping, and queuing up within a maze of steel barricades, all bottlenecking at the lone metal detector at Gate 2 — the only point of “free” entry.
“Khallas!” the officer spit out, sounding like he was clearing his throat. “Enough!”
Busloads of Western expats drove by in luxury coaches to special entrances. At Gate 2, however, nobody had been let through in fifteen minutes. A rumor swept through the crowd that the metal detector had broken. When a nearby gate mysteriously opened, a swarm broke out of captivity and ran in its direction. Tony and I joined this rogue human wave stampeding along a high barbed-wire fence.
A phalanx of police stood in the way, bellowing “Khallas! Khallas!”
The crowd zoomed past and we joined the flow through the free entry onto an expansive green lawn inside Nad Al Sheba. “This way,” Tony directed. We darted among even commoner-looking people who loitered on the grass in front of half-empty free metal bleachers. We were at the far end of the track, beyond the finish line, but at least we were in.
We zipped down to the inside rail, running along the dirt track, and followed the hedges toward the finish line. A Sudanese family picnicking on a carpet blocked our path; we swung around them and past Egyptian men sitting in lawn chairs drinking tea. Next we skirted the climate-controlled Al Dhana Marquee, a dining pavilion offering food, drink and a poor view of the track — at 2,400 dirhams a head.
In front of the Maktoum Grandstand and Terrace — sold out at 1,400 dirhams for a sheltered seat and food — we wedged into a spot along the shoulder-high hedges lining the rail and staked our turf.
On the dirt infield sat a huge video screen. The infield grass, planted with thousands of white orbs, resembled an alien melon crop. I puzzled on that only briefly. I was focused on carving out my square foot by the rail. Next to me a woman in a matching yellow print sari and headscarf sat on a damp carpet, cradling a wrapped infant.
Tony pointed down the track. “There’s the finish line. I’d say we’ve found a pretty good spot, and it didn’t cost a dirham!”
I scanned the first row of the Maktoum Grandstand and fixated on two blondes and a brunette, all spilling ample cleavage. Among them they had nine empty wine glasses lined up on the railing. The brunette puffed on a long, thin cigarette, and the platinum-er of the blondes sported a Roaring ’20s flapper-style hairdo. This was festooned with a big yellow flower on her bonnet. The natural-er blonde was showing off an oversized, floppy straw hat that would be much envied at the Kentucky Derby. Not that this was Ascot, but the Dubai World Cup featured bonnet and costume competitions.
“Look,” I said to Tony, pointing up. “There… and there… and there.” I waited for him to see what I had. “We could have been sitting with them up there and out of the rain.”
“Dream on, young David,” Tony said, with a laugh. “I’m just where I want to be.”
In close proximity to us, two more women, one wearing a black neqab and the other a matching pink-and-black polka dot sari and headscarf, sat cross-legged on a folded green blanket. The space the blanket defined as theirs was littered with plastic food bags, amid which crawled two moist toddlers.
“You don’t see thatat a Clevistan racetrack,” Tony chortled. He was right, of course.
The two women looked harried and bored by the prospect of a horserace. Neither could claim the beauty of those sitting above. But they reaffirmed my sense that my place was, yes, here on the ground.
It was time for the races. The first was the one I wanted to see most. It pitted the world’s best Arabian Purebreds against one another on a short track. The horses’ mythic origin story and place in human history had always held fascination. They kept company with Allah, Abraham, Solomon and Sheba, Mohammed, and T.E. Lawrence. Of course there was Napoleon’s Marengo. The movies had given me “The Black Stallion.”
The steady sprinkle went on as the bell clanged and the Arabians exploded out of the gate. As they did, a wave of hoi polloiswept toward the track. Tony and I were crushed like sardines into the prickly hedges. “I can’t move,” I hollered to him over the roar of the crowd. “And I have a dozen tiny Bangladeshis crawling up my ass.”
On the mammoth TV screen across from us the horses charged ahead, rounding the clubhouse turn, flying past the Irish Village, Bubble Lounge, and the Clubhouse itself. Under the bright lights and escalating excitement they pounded toward the finish line.
“Look,” Tony said, holding high the video cam he had retrieved from his vest pocket. “Here they come!” As the Arabians galloped past the finish line — and us — the crush of bodies abated. “Thrilling!”
I grabbed the back of my shorts and yanked down. “My ass will never be the same!”
All the same, I’ll say there is nothing more thrilling than a stampede of Arabians. The winner of the $250,000 purse, by three and a half lengths, was Fryvolous, a six-year-old French-bred gelding owned by His Highness Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed al Nahyan, ruler of Abu Dhabi and president of the UAE.
One thing I’d learned as a sports editor: Far too often the hype is bigger than the event. Case in point, most Super Bowls.
One championship that lived up to its buildup was the 1982 NCAA Final Four held in New Orleans’s Superdome between Patrick Ewing’s Georgetown Hoyas and James Worthy’s North Carolina Tar Heels with a freshman named “Mike” Jordan in support. I covered that game for The Minneapolis Star. Sitting courtside with colleague Paul Levy, I witnessed close-up as “Mike” sank the winning shot with time running out handing chain-smoking Dean Smith his first national title. That’s the day that jumpstarted the Jordan Legend as “Michael, not Mike” emerged. After the smoke cleared, the other scribes rushed off to meet deadlines and I, writing on a late deadline for a dying afternoon paper, eyed the now-alone freshman in the nearly empty locker room. I approached, we shared a few words, and I filed my column. Reflecting on that moment what had stuck in my memory these many years was more the look in Jordan’s eyes than the electrifying game. Did he know what was before him? Was it God’s will? My story about that game would run in The Star’spenultimate edition before it ceased publication.
Who won the races that evening fade into background. What remains is the color of the evening. What was taking place around me not on the sand and turf. I could always see fast thoroughbreds run but never again in an environment like this. This was the curtain.
Just before the million-dollar Etisalat Godolphin Mile, an impromptu Maghribprayer service convened in front of the white-picket fence at the base of the Maktoum Grandstand. A diverse group of South Asian, Omani, and Sudanese men threw down a peculiar collection of prayer rugs and got down on their knees facing Mecca in the drizzle. Dozens more worshippers joined in, alternately standing, kneeling, and lying prostrate.
“I bet you’ve never seen that before at a racetrack in the U.S.,” Tony said, pointing in their direction. “Doubt Jews would ever do that.”
I let out a belly laugh. “Never would. Jews don’t pray on their knees.”
Before the third race the rain stopped and dusk set in. Under this rare cloud canopy the early evening air was soft and cool. The $2-million UAE Derby was won by 16-to-1 long-shot Regal Ransom, a dark bay three-year-old colt. But it was what happened after the race directly in front of me that captured my attention. A tall Sudanese man under a white turban lifted a small boy from his shoulders and planted him softly on the tarmac. Then I watched him crumple a betting slip and toss it at my feet. As there was no legal betting in the UAE, I was intrigued. “You lose this race?” I asked, looking up at him.
He shook his head in disgust. “I picked the first two winners. Not the third. Now I have no more reason to stay.” He grabbed the little boy’s hand and walked toward an exit.
A Florida colt won the last race of the undercard. Big City Man collected a purse of $2 million. That year’s Kentucky Derby winner, Mine That Trail, would earn just $1.2 million.
The reason for the alien melon field came into sudden focus. The racetrack lights dimmed and the orbs glowed white and then blue, green and purple. More long strings of the glowing melons rose into the sky in a bright rainbow of primary colors. Music blared and tracers burst high above the racetrack, exploding in arcs of hot white light. Another huge column of colored orbs rose up, suggesting a Wobbling Tower of Pisa. Fireworks shot into the sky and exploded in new bursts of color. The crowd of 25,000 roared. We commoners, I believe, outshouted the stands. After the last explosion, many families around us packed up and departed. They had come to see the fireworks, not the ponies.
When the smoke cleared it was time for the three big races. Total purse: $16 million.
As often happens, the biggest race turned out to be a dud. The title race, the $6-million Dubai World Cup, with the single biggest winning purse — $5 million — was won by Well Armed, a six-year-old Kentucky-bred bay gelding. A horse with no balls thumped the field winning by fourteen lengths. Dubai’s Maktoum and his family won most of the races. But not the biggest. I’d heard they created the Dubai’s World Cup so they could show off and win some of the millions of the billion they’d invested in thoroughbreds.
As if byinsha’Allah, the instant Well Armed crossed the finish line the sky opened like a spigot. We common people took off running toward Gate 2 — smack into a bottleneck set up by Emirati police.
“Khallas, Khallas!” several screamed.
“Khallas!”the crowd shouted back.
“Dayenu!” I added for emphasis.
The rain fell in buckets. Bolts of light flashed across the horizon, striking the world’s tallest lightning rod — the Burj Dubai — and exploding in crazy arcs of electricity grander than any man-made fireworks spectacle ever contrived.
“Did you see that?” Tony marveled. “Now thatis spectacular.”
“Khallas!” police shouted.
A Sudanese man beside me shouted. “We are not even goats to these Emiratis!”
“Ma’hatha, ma’hatha,” Tony yelled.
“Khallas! Khallas!” an Emirati officer screamed. “Khallas!”
“Ma’hatha, ma’hatha,”Tony yelled again.
Angry men in the crowd raised their fists shouting at the police. We pushed through the gate.
BOOM!… another bolt exploded at the top of the Burj, spitting out bright photon capillaries.
“What are you saying?” I asked Tony, rain cascading off the brim of my CBS News cap.
Tony let out a howl. “It’s basic Arabic. It means, ‘What is this?’ But nobody knows it!”
“Look around,” I hollered. “There are few Arabs here. Mostly Bahtan and Africans.”
A figurative light bulb lit up over Tony’s head. “Wait, you’re right! Most of these people speak Urdu. They don’t know what ma’hathameans.”
“Neither do I,” I laughed. “But you taught me that dickiis the Arabic for chicken.And that’s what I’m feeling like right now. A Kentucky Fried dicki! This crowd is getting mad and it worries me.”
“Not only that, but the sky is falling.”
More busloads of VVVIPs drove past in a slow procession, blocking the way to the shuttles. Police continued to yell “Khallas!” Bahtan screamed back at them. The Sudanese man hollered, “They treat the horses better than they treat us! We are not even people to them. We are less than animals.”
Tony leaned over to me. “Hell, we’re not even P’s to them. He’s right.”
BOOM!… BOOM! Lightning exploded off the top of the Burj. BOOM!
“Khallas!”Emirati security officers shouted. “Khallas!”
I bellowed at Tony as the rain pelted us. “We could have been VVVIPs or even just VIPs for fifteen hundred dirhams. We could have been fed, drunk and dry, but you had to be a man of the people!”
Tony turned nose to nose. “Young David, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”
