Giant palm-shaped islands sprawled out into the Persian Gulf, north of Dubai. They stretched like fourteen fingers toward the sea which was why they were called The Palm. A sand bar made a halo around the fronds which shielded the houses and buildings from the vastness of the gulf.
The trunk of The Palm was an elevated highway over the sea. Vehicles buzzed like angry bees crawling in and out of the fronds. Motorists entering the palm were welcomed by tall concrete pylons which were built like leaves bowing down at the passing royalties. Two huge bridges called The Gateway linked the main stem of the palm islands to the coastal area of Jumeirah.
Seven rectangular concrete blocks called pile caps in two rows supported the two three-hundred-fifty-meter-long main bridges which divided into four other smaller bridges. These interchanges were shaped like clover leaves that accommodated the volume of traffic coming in and out of islands. The bridges continued onto the left and right fronds where residential houses and buildings were built. Some of these luxurious homes had each their own beachfront, a ponton for boats, and a swimming pool. The bluish private pools sparkled against the hot desert sun.
Years back, when I was working with BESIX during the construction of the artificial islands, I was standing on one of these islands being formed, working as Quality Control Engineer. The islands were a reclaimed area that were formed by dumping sand, blown from a huge dredger boat into the ocean. The process was called sand rainbowing because the projectile of the sand formed like a rainbow.
The construction areas were neither scenic nor inviting. Nowhere else in the world like The Palm. It probably altered Dubai’s natural shorelines forever. Mounds of dry reclaimed sand were leveled-off to the ground by giant trucks, bulldozers, and compactors. Office trailers were scattered strategically on temporary reclaimed areas.
The construction site was a big yard of steel, wood, and dusty machines. It was a harsh environment for white-collar executives or to someone who got used to working indoors. Occasionally, swirling hot winds would stir up the desert that made visibility poor and conditions unworkable. During the sandstorm, I could touch the air and gather powdery beige dust in my hand. It could irritate the eyes and throat even with a head covering. The dry heat turned to high humidity like a button had been switched on. I would soak up sweaty in a few minutes outdoors.
Pounding, screeching, hammering, and the competing arguments of construction workers made up this environment. The cloudless, pale blue sky, and the dusty air were passive witnesses to the toils of the labourers in the construction site. The workers in our site were mostly from Asia, and few others were from Europe who held higher positions in the company. The labourers worked hard under the sweltering heat for at least 10 hours a day, and six days a week. Friday was a day-off for everyone. In spite of the dirt and noise, the cheerfulness and friendliness among the workers made the fifty-degree-centigrade temperature felt a little less unbearable.
The beach resorts nearby to the construction site were two sides of the story that was Dubai. In one area, there were the sunbathers tanning their skin with fragrant oils. In another place not far across, above the scaffolding and steel, were the labourers in mud-stained blue overalls, sweaty and smelled of rust. The wealthy tourists seemed oblivious to the massive concrete structures mushrooming out of the sand.
The construction site would one day make The Palm a coveted destination for business and leisure travelers. Once completed, the “privileged” got to taste the convenience, the hospitality, the beauty, and the superficiality of The Palm. No one would ever see the dust, the rust, or the drop of blood that came out from the hands of the labourers wounded by words, steel, and stone.
Working in the construction site was not my dream job. I needed to console myself and to self-compensate for the misery of working right under the scorching heat of the sun. I wanted to do something that I would enjoy after work hours. So, I joined a Filipino choir at the St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Church and classical singing have been my passion and became a life-long obsession and quest for learning.
The Middle East has been known for its conservatism in the Muslim faith. Dubai was different. It was more liberal than most of it’s neighbouring emirates. St. Mary’s Catholic Church was conspicuously standing beside a Mosque. Having the two churches side by side was a modern-day symbol, and a reminder of continued co-existence among Muslims and Christians as well as other faiths and cultures.
The symbolism transcended languages as well. Singing in a choir had been a part of me growing up. It enabled me to form friendships, and a feeling of belongingness. I’ve read some literatures that recognized singing in groups brought a feeling of happiness too. We were it.
In the first choir I joined, there were about thirty choristers. One of the guys in the choir was also a newcomer to Dubai. Jun, we called him. He was in the bass section and he could make the walls tremble with his voice. His vibrato resonated and echoed in all the four corners of the hall where we rehearsed in. Jun had a walnut complexion, a speaking voice that sounded like a fine-tuned trombone, and a bang of timpani when he laughed. What amazed me, and I was sure everyone else were, was when he gave the choir a vocalisation exercise before we started rehearsals while we were waiting for the Music Director. The exercises triggered some of those who had a taste of formal choral experience or had certain musical background to ask for more. You would know a leader when you saw one. Later on, we would know that he was a pro in music. He became a beacon of hope, a Robinhood, for those who crave for good choral singing. A new choir was born. A few others followed suit.
Behind the piano, Jun was a teacher who demanded a lot from a chorister. He’s very jolly and maintained a childlike fascination of life. He used to make faces imitating comedians and actors to our heart’s content and laughter. Sometimes, he acted out famous lines from famous movies.
In one Filipino movie, the protagonist was a woman who appeared to be manifesting miracles, but later on, she, herself, admitted in front of her faithful followers that it was all a fraud, that there was no miracle. The story was a tragedy, but Jun added a funny twist. He squinted his eyes, slightly bent his five-feet-four, medium-built body, looked you eye to eye, raised his index finger up near his face, and blurted out with admonition and warning,
“Walang himala!” (“There is no miracle!”).
“Jun, more, more!” we would all demand in laughter.
He contorted his face and pointed his index finger up for emphasis, to a tearless cry and put something on his face to resemble the mole of a super star actor. He sarcastically, in a funny way, asked a section of singers and said, “Is the piano so soft, you couldn’t hear it?” then he would play a series of loud discordant chords, which ended on a diminished seventh that didn’t resolve to a tonic.
His faith in God was unquestionable. Some would sulk though at his perceived strictness and fussiness with tones and tunes of combined voices. He was very meticulous. But with all these, I don’t remember him making any personal attacks. He never had tantrums. Always leading our services to God. It’s not that he was a saint, it’s just what would one do with such a gift. I’m sure there were acts of balancing the profound goal of inspiring people with songs but there would also be the aspect of that messiness of making art.
One of my uncles used to say, “In order to go to paradise, you have to sacrifice,” a lot of sacrifices and discipline to attain that one correct note that rang sublime in one’s own ears and heart. Letting go and movement sustained us as a choir. During one of the performances, Jun stood and performed with us on stage, about ten singers, with only a tuning fork in his hand. He would hit the fork to sound the key and then whispered that note to the person next to him, then passed onto the next person and the next so we all would know our notes.
At one time we were invited to sing the national anthem of the United Arab Emirates, in Abu Dhabi. The energy at the performance level usually reflected the mood and emotions of the conductor. Jun gave us that – we gave the best and gave all in the name of service. Jun did not aim for fame, nor popularity, or money.
He loved his wife and kids. We would joke at him that the only antidote to his rugged side was his wife’s sweet voice hearing it on the phone that it was time for him to come home from a late night’s rehearsals. With sadness, Jun (Jhune De Leon) passed away recently of COVID.
