Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai
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Authors: JR Roth
SHEIKHS, LIES & REAL ESTATE
THE UNTOLD STORY OF DUBAI
JR Roth
Text copyright @
2012 JR Roth.
All rights
reserved.
For M, the bravest person I
know...
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters and incidents in the story are products of the author’s imagination,
or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Although real
people, places and incidents are referred to throughout the book, they are
intermingled with the fictional people and events that make up the story. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written consent of the
author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles
and reviews.
The Romans have done great things
but their time is past. What they have done we can do. We should rule the
world.
Attila
the Hun
The moment you say ‘I am on top and
nobody will reach me’ – that is when people will catch up with you. What we are
trying to do in Dubai is to extend the distance between us and everybody else.
If they really want to catch up, they will have to go two or three times our
speed, and in doing this they will run out of breath. So we are looking to
maintain the gap by not stopping anytime soon.
HRH
Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum
Sandcastles never last.
As a child I would spend countless hours on the
beach with my bucket and spade, meticulously constructing an opulent palace fit
for a king, only for an unwelcome tide to wipe it out of existence for ever.
Standing forlorn on the shore in disbelief, the
tears rolling down my rosy cheeks, it was the sense of utter helplessness that was
the hardest to swallow. Perhaps this was an early warning of the fickle nature
of humanity’s great triumphs, a humbling reminder that our proudest
achievements are irrelevant against the infinite annals of time. But little did
I know then this harsh lesson would come back to haunt me again years later, in
a distant sheikhdom in the mysterious Middle East...
At the dawn of the twenty-first century, a
desert storm in the Persian Gulf was gathering pace. The timeless dunes were
shifting to make way for an exotic new land where money flowed more freely than
water and sand could be turned into gold. A new metropolis miraculously emerged
from the barren desert and onto the global stage as a thriving centre of business,
a glamorous tourist paradise and an opulent playground for the super-rich; thousands
flocked to its shores to claim a share of its spoils.
In less than a decade, an estimated $600
billion of petrodollars, ‘hot money’ and cheap credit transformed the remote
Emirate of Dubai from a Bedouin backwater into a contemporary utopia. Fortunes
were made in the blink of an eye on the roulette wheel of Dubai’s property
casino, and everybody emerged a winner. And with such instant and outrageous
wealth came all of its inevitable trappings: fast cars, lavish parties, exotic
women, and piles of cold, hard cash.
Far away from the desert miracle in a forgotten
corner of British suburbia, I was a hopeless young dreamer trapped in the
mundane grind of London’s corporate rat race. Desperately seeking an escape, I
was infatuated from the moment I heard of this exciting city of boundless
opportunity, and obsessed over the thought of eloping to find my fortune. As
the stars aligned and I plucked up the courage to leave behind my humdrum life,
I found myself thrust into the middle a fairytale world of wealth and excess,
cowboys and crooks, hookahs and hookers.
But it was not to last. As the great desert party
approached its final hours, the lights went out and the music abruptly stopped.
The shockwaves of the global credit crunch had reached Eastern shores, and the
tsunami that followed not only wiped out the sandcastles, it took the entire
beach with it. Fairytale became tragedy and greed turned to fear, and as
Dubai’s envious naysayers revelled in glee from the sidelines, thousands
scrambled to avoid the bleak fate of a dark foreign jail cell or being drowned
in a sea of debt.
The following story is inspired by actual
events during the Dubai property boom between 2002 and 2009. Much has been
written and discussed about the dramatic rise and fall of Dubai, but few have
heard the shocking true story, until now.
This is the remarkable tale of a rude awakening
from an Arabian dream...
On the
Cusp
A familiar figure stands a thousand feet high above the
turquoise waters of the Arabian Gulf. As a dusty breeze blows gently against
his spotless white polo shirt, he shields his eyes from the beaming desert sun
and peers out over the edge to absorb the breathtaking view below. He sees an
endless coastline of pearl-white sand gently kissing the ocean bed. In the hazy
distance there are vaguely visible clusters of emerging skyscrapers, roads and
villas surrounded by acres of unspoiled desert extending as far as the eye can
see. Directly below lies a manmade marina with dozens of luxury yachts
scattered around the clear blue water like stars in the night sky.
There is an impressive intensity in his eyes as
he takes a deep breath to focus. Bending his knees and lowering his head, he
pauses for a moment in preparation before taking an almighty swing! He hears a
gasp from the on-looking crowd amid a chorus of camera shutters singing in
unison behind him as the white speck flies high into the air and is swallowed by
the cloudless sky above, never to be seen again.
The man is golf legend Tiger Woods and he is
standing on the fifty-sixth-storey helipad of the opulent Burj Al Arab, the
tallest hotel on the planet. Tiger is the guest of the Jumeirah Group, Sheikh
Mohammed of Dubai’s luxury hotel brand, who has invited him to do what he does
best against the most remarkable backdrop in the region. The event is billed as
the meeting of two icons: the world’s greatest golfer and the world’s only
seven-star hotel. Woods is reported to have been paid $1 million for this
single appearance, and Dubai is later to become the home of his own signature
golf course.
Then, in 2004, the relatively unknown emirate
of Dubai was on the threshold of greatness – thousands would soon be arriving
from around the globe to join those already chasing the so-called Dubai Dream.
A modern Arabian fairytale was taking shape in the desert, and it was only a
matter of time before the rest of the world would sit up and pay attention.
***
‘
Ahlan wa sahlan
, and welcome to sunny Dubai!’
announced the chirpy air stewardess through her huge cabin-crew smile.
It was about time. I had never been a very
comfortable flier, and the seven-and-a-half-hour journey from London had
drained me of every last drop of patience. I tried hard to sit back and close
my eyes in those final few moments, but I was too restless to relax. Like an
adrenaline junkie on the cusp of a death-defying bungee jump, there was a
nervous energy pumping through my veins and I was now itching to break free
from the shackles of my economy-class seat.
As at last the seatbelt signs switched off, I
clutched my bags and pushed my way to the front of the crowd to ensure I was
first in line. And then, seconds before the aircraft doors opened, it hit me.
After all the pondering, worrying, reflecting and planning, this was it. There
was no turning back now.
From the moment I set foot in the airport, I
was swallowed by its enormity. The terminal was a colossal emporium of glass,
silver, marble and gold. Infinite arrival gates stretched as far as I could
see, and giant indoor palm trees towered over the bustling marble atrium below.
The vast building surrounding me was nothing short of a feat of modern architectural
endeavour; a far cry from the mud huts and tents I had been expecting to see on
my arrival in the Arabian Desert.
As I strolled along what seemed like an
infinite gangway, I glanced at the awe-struck faces of my fellow travellers.
They were businessmen and Bedouins, Western tourists and African traders,
bright-eyed Filipinos and emaciated Indians. Some had come to lounge on the
beaches, browse at the gold souks, and bash the dunes on the must-do desert
safari. But others had bigger plans. They had been seduced by Sheikh Mohammed’s
great vision and had gambled everything to start anew. Many followed in the
footsteps of friends, kin and countrymen who were already living prosperous
lives with regular work and high salaries in the city. To these ambitious
dreamers, this was not just an airport but a modern-day Ellis Island: a gateway
to a bright future of unspeakable riches.
I followed the mob onto the escalator to the
lower floor, where I was engulfed by familiar designer boutiques like Gucci,
Dior and Prada, curiously juxtaposed with traditional souk-like stalls selling
Arabian perfumes, garments and dates. It was part bazaar and part modern mall, and
I felt as if I was at once on Fifth Avenue and in old Baghdad. The contradiction
seemed to resonate well as the high-end designer outlets were brimming with
brand-hungry Arabs and layover businesspeople killing time, while the old
stalls satisfied every tourist adventurer’s hunt for souvenir treasures to take
home as mementos of a journey to exotic lands.
Right in the centre of the terminal sat a
sparkling silver Lamborghini, shamelessly teasing every captivated bystander. I
sniggered at the thought that this was perhaps some sheikh’s VIP parking spot
while he popped to Paris for a spot of weekend shopping. The super-car was in
fact the grand prize in the Dubai Duty Free raffle, which offered punters a
one-in-a-thousand chance to become its lucky owner. A display board stood
beside it featuring dozens of photographs of ecstatic former winners, all
proudly holding up their new keys as proof of their prize. It was a fitting
metaphor: ‘anybody could win in Dubai’. It was the very promise of this mantra that
was attracting new dreamers to this exciting city every day. Indeed, I was one
of them.
On my way towards the Arrivals hall, I was
unexpectedly struck with a nose full of spicy Arabian incense from one of the
nearby stalls which made me feel rather dizzy. As I struggled to regain my
senses I clumsily stumbled into the path of something that sent me crashing to
the ground. I looked back to see that I had stumbled into a five-piece designer
luggage set, which was now scattered across the floor. A large Arab man dressed
in a spotless white tunic, sandals and traditional headdress suddenly towered
over me. Most of his chubby face was engulfed by a messy stubble, and he stared
at me disdainfully through his aviator sunglasses.
As he launched into a tirade of abuse in
Arabic, I tried to make amends by collecting his stray bags. My gesture didn’t
seem to do the trick; instead he huffed at me like a raging bull, snatched his luggage
from my fingertips and charged off into the distance. I felt a little sheepish
for a moment, but in spite of the scolding I was also rather pleased; I had
just had my first cultural exchange with a ‘real’ Emirati! It wasn’t on the
best of terms, but being acknowledged was surely a first step to acceptance by
the locals. I skipped towards Passport Control with a smug smile on my face. I
was starting to fit in already.
After collecting my luggage, I was finally ready
to venture into the city. I put on my sunglasses and stepped out of the airport
with the swagger of a rock star. But nothing could have prepared me for the
shock that followed. My legs turned to jelly, beads of sweat formed across my
burning forehead and my face turned scarlet with panic. I felt as if I had put
my head into a blazing oven wearing a woolly hat, balaclava and ear mufflers.
It was unbearably hot. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around and made a
desperate dash back to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the terminal.
I took a seat on the benches inside for a few
moments to recover from the ordeal. I had heard temperatures in Dubai were
known to creep up a bit, but I was not expecting the heat to be this ruthless. As
I peered nervously outside to plot the cleanest route possible to the taxi
stand, I was distracted by an animated figure out of the corner of my eye. A
tall, slim man with curly hair appeared to be jumping around and waving
frantically in my direction. He wasn’t very old, perhaps 30, Middle Eastern in
appearance and dressed in an oversized suit. I assumed for a moment he was a
heat-induced hallucination, but the more I tried to ignore him the more
enthusiastically he vied for my attention. Who was this stranger and why was he
so pleased to see me? As I cautiously made my way to the exit to investigate,
he rushed towards me and snatched my bags, almost taking my arms with them.
‘Hello, sir! Welcome to Dubai!’ he shouted in a
high-pitched Arabic accent, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘I am Fadi, your
driver! I hope you had a nice flight?’ His hospitable manner was flattering,
although I was rather relieved that he didn’t try to kiss me, which for a brief
moment did not seem to be out of the question.
‘Thank you, but there must be some mistake. I
didn’t book a driver…’
‘Compliments of the hotel, sir! We are honoured
that you are staying with us! Please, sir, my car is this way. Follow me!’
The short distance to the car park felt more
like a trek across the Sahara in the unforgiving heat, but the chariot awaiting
me at the other end was worth the effort: a black luxury Mercedes, glistening
under the piercing desert sun. It was certainly a far cry from the Nissan
minicab that had taken me to the airport back in London. While Fadi loaded my
bags into the trunk, I sank my sweaty behind into the soft leather, air-conditioned
sanctuary of the back seat. Awaiting me were two ice-cold bottles of mineral
water, both of which I gulped down in a matter of seconds. I never remembered
water tasting so damn good! Cool and refreshed, I sat back and made myself
comfortable. This was more like it. Finally, I had arrived.
‘More AC, sir? Or it is okay?’ asked Fadi, as
we eventually pulled out of the car park.
‘Thank you, it’s perfect. Fadi, I must say your
English is very good.’
He looked overjoyed by the compliment. ‘Thank
you, sir! I learn from James Bond, Prince Charles, The Beatles!’
‘I see, and where are you from?’ I asked,
curious.
‘I am from Egypt, sir,’ he replied proudly. ‘From
Cairo.’
‘Have you been in Dubai long?’
‘About four years, sir.’
‘And how do you find it here?’
‘It is okay, sir. Sometimes good, sometimes
bad! Dubai is really for people like you, not like me.’
Before I could ask what exactly he meant by
‘people like me’, I was distracted by the view from my rear window. We were in
the middle of the desert, but there was not a single sand dune or camel herder
in sight. Hundreds of luscious date-bearing palm trees lined every street amid
perfectly manicured beds of colourful flowers, exotic plants and flawless
lawns. The city outside was nothing like I had imagined. The paths were clean
and untarnished, the roads wide and spacious. There was a familiar pattern of
traffic signals and road signs, each of them in both English and Arabic, and
every second car passing us was a luxury Mercedes, Lexus or Range Rover.
‘Fadi, are women allowed to drive in Dubai?’ I
asked.
‘Oh yes, of course, sir. Dubai is not like
Saudi Arabia. Dubai is free!’
As we stopped at a red traffic signal, a
spotless white BMW pulled up beside us. In the driver’s seat was a beautiful
Emirati woman with flawless fair skin and dark Christian Dior sunglasses. Her
head was only half covered with a thin black veil, revealing a modern bronze
fringe straight out of the pages of
Vogue
magazine. Seductively miming
the words to the Arabic pop song blasting out of the stereo, she seemed too
preoccupied to notice me gawping as she reached for a vanity mirror in her
handbag to top up her perfect pink lip gloss. The lights turned green and she
revved the powerful engine before speeding off into the distance, leaving Fadi
behind in her slipstream. It seemed that not only did women drive in Dubai, they
were full-blown petrol heads; and I have to admit that in a way it turned me
on.
We approached the centre of the city and my
attention quickly shifted to the looming silhouette of the hazy vista ahead. I
remembered how
Vanity Fair
magazine had called it the ‘skyline on
crack’, and it was now clear why. Each building was unique in shape and design,
ranging from the astonishing to the grotesque, like the manifestation of both an
architect’s wildest fantasy and most surreal nightmare.
‘You see this building, sir?’ asked Fadi,
pointing at a dirty and dated-looking white tower.
‘Yes, what about it?’
‘This is called the World Trade Centre
building, sir. It is a very famous landmark in Dubai. Only ten years ago this
was the tallest tower in the Middle East. And look at it now!’
Today it was an awkward anachronism; its dated
architecture and thirty-nine storeys dwarfed by the more impressive modern
structures surrounding it. I wondered why it hadn’t been demolished to make way
for the contemporary towers. Perhaps its very purpose now was to act as a
yardstick of progress against which the emerging Dubai could be measured; a
benchmark for just how far the city had come.
‘We are now on the Sheikh Zayed Road, sir,’
said Fadi, as we merged into a vast, twelve-lane highway. I sat up eagerly.
Named in homage to the nation’s much-revered founding father, the busy highway
was the main artery running through the centre of Dubai, from the Emirate of
Sharjah all the way to the UAE’s capital city Abu Dhabi. It was something of a
landmark, and most journeys in Dubai involved at least a brief stint on the ‘SZR’.
I had read and heard much about this famous road and it was quite exciting to
finally be driving along it.
Nevertheless, the single fact about the highway
that I remembered most vividly was that it was considered one of the most
dangerous in the world, and it was now clear why. There were six lanes in each
direction, and with each the raw speed of the cars was more intense and
terrifying. Sports cars, 4x4s and minivans rushed around us at dizzying speeds,
aggressively jostling for position like rival title pretenders in the final lap
of a grand prix. The leftmost lane looked like a sheer death trap that only the
foolish dared enter at their peril. Much to my relief, Fadi cruised sensibly in
the third.