Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (10 page)

‘Sure,’ I replied. I seemed to have touched a
nerve. It was obvious Jerome was not in the best of moods, so I backed off for
now. ‘No problem.’

The weekly Saturday afternoon polo meeting was
one of the quintessential highlights of Dubai socialites’ events calendar, and
they came in droves in their Land Cruisers and Range Rovers to watch. It was a
worthy pretext for the
nouveaux riches
to congregate in a grand display
of keeping up with the Joneses. Many smug expatriates equated a day at the polo
with their newly acquired social status, an affirmation that they had somehow
arrived and were now firmly perched on a rung of the social ladder that they
could only have dreamed of reaching in their home countries. Few knew the
difference between a chucker and a check and turn, but that was beside the
point. This day was really about being fabulous and being seen.

Pretty girls with dark shades and excessive
tans dressed in their finest dresses and hats as they tittle-tattled and
hobnobbed through the crowds, sipping suggestively from ever-brimming champagne
flutes. Red-faced men with pot bellies and overflowing pint glasses stood by
the sideboards, pretending to understand the intricacies of the game. They set
up picnics and feasted on sandwiches, cakes and biscuits from hampers arranged
by their overworked maids the night before. And as the game began, the air was
filled with the constant din of popping corks and tinny laughs in a shameless
celebration of the good life.

Today, Abdallah’s team was squaring off against
the mighty Habtoor polo club, and we arrived just in time for the beginning of
the first chucker. Abdallah was already padded up and ready to play and he came
over to greet us before he went onto the field.

‘Welcome, guys! Glad you could make it.’ He
stood proudly beside his horse, a beautiful black stallion with glistening
skin, its every muscle perfectly toned. He stroked it lovingly before beckoning
a beautiful European woman over to meet us.

‘Meet Alice, my wife. Alice, these are the two
guys from the UK I was telling you about yesterday.’

Alice shook our hands without saying a word, a
forced smile on her face. I had expected Abdallah’s wife to be an Emirati, so I
was slightly taken aback. She was very pretty and dressed elegantly in jeans, a
chemise and dark Chanel sunglasses. Their 3-year-old son Zaid wandered around
on the grass as his father mounted his horse and prepared to enter the field.
This Abdallah was a different man to the womanising fiend with a twisted sense
of humour from the night before. Today he was a devoted husband, loving father
and disciplined sportsman. The seamless change of persona baffled me.

As the game began, Jerome and I were ushered to
a small marquee erected on the edge of the polo field, which suitably sheltered
us from the mid-afternoon sun. We took our seats on the cushioned deckchairs as
an Indian butler appeared with cups of mint tea, a plate of luscious dates and
shisha
.
We snacked on meticulously prepared sandwiches and cakes, and the mint- and
grape-flavoured
shisha
was the smoothest I had had so far.

My attention began to wander around the field
as I puffed out larger and larger billows of smoke from my pipe. Next to our
tent was Abdallah’s navy-blue convertible Aston Martin, its roof temptingly
lowered to reveal its delicious cream upholstery. The two digit number plate
‘23’ was a symbol of high status in the Emirati hierarchy; it was probably even
worth more than the car itself. To the right of the fields beyond a line of
palm trees were a dozen unfinished mansions surrounded by flags bearing the
unmistakable symbol of property developer Emaar. These concrete shells, looking
out directly onto the field, were eventually to become exclusive luxury homes
for discerning polo enthusiasts. Each was already worth a small fortune, even
though they were still years away from completion.

‘I’m going to check out the talent on the other
side of the field. Back shortly,’ said Jerome, before disappearing for a while.
I was perfectly content where I was and continued to puff and enjoy the game.

‘So how long have you been in Dubai?’ asked a
soothing Irish voice to my left. Alice had taken her seat beside me. She sipped
on a glass of red wine, keeping her eyes firmly on the field through her
sunglasses.

‘A few months now,’ I replied hesitantly.

‘And do you like it here?’

‘Yeah, it’s an interesting place.’

‘Interesting?’ She smiled wryly. ‘That it is.
That it certainly is.’ There was a distinct sadness in her voice that I couldn’t
ignore. 

‘Have you and Abdallah been married long?’ I
asked.

‘Eight years. Although it seems like a lifetime
now.’

‘Wow, so I guess you’ve seen Dubai go from camels
to Cadillacs, as they say!’

‘Yes, and a whole lot more. Dubai is not all
that it seems, believe me. But I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself too much to
care. Am I right?’

‘Yes, I think I’m settling in okay.’

‘I’m sure. Dubai is like Neverland for a young,
good-looking guy like you,’ she smiled, still refusing to look away from the
game. I was flattered, and if I wasn’t mistaken I was sure she was flirting
with me. Considering her husband was the son of one of the wealthiest locals in
the country, all I could think of was the unthinkable punishment if somebody
was watching us.

‘So I get the impression you don’t like Dubai
very much?’

‘I used to, once upon a time.’ She took off her
glasses, revealing her stunning green eyes. ‘It’s not quite the same any more.
You know, Dubai used to be a romantic place. Like a fairytale. The people were
good and friendly. People cared about each other more, and you felt part of
something amazing, like a family.’

‘And is it different now?’

‘Now...’ she smiled again. ‘Well, now it’s all
about money and greed and sex. It’s sad, you know.’ There was a beautiful sense
of tragedy in her words.

She told me how she and Abdallah had met in
Dublin when he was travelling through Ireland as a young man. She was 19 at the
time and he had wooed her with his boyish charm and persistent romantic
gestures. She had actually believed that he was an Arabian prince who had come
to whisk her away to an exotic land. They married in a humble Christian
ceremony in Dublin, followed by a much larger Muslim affair in Dubai, to which over
three thousand guests were invited. Today she was living in a ten-bedroom
mansion with an army of servants catering to her every whim, and had every
luxury she could dream of at her fingertips. But there was an emptiness in her
voice, as if her dream to become a princess had turned into a horrible
nightmare.

‘But it’s never too late, you know. We all make
mistakes. How else would we learn?’

‘What do you mean?’ I was a little confused.

‘I have access to money. A lot of money. I
could disappear and nobody would care.’ I assumed she was taking about leaving
Abdallah. ‘If I asked you, would you come with me?’ She laughed wickedly as I
tried to decipher whether there was a hidden meaning to her words. Before I
could answer her, half-time approached.

‘I would like to ask our spectators to come
onto the field and help replace the divots, if you would be so kind,’ said the
announcer over the tannoy. The crowd rushed onto the grass, champagne flutes
and pint glasses in hand, and began to stomp away frantically. It seemed that
few of them actually knew the reasons for stomping the divots, except that it
was what posh people did at polo matches.

‘Come on, let’s do it!’ Alice jumped up and
grabbed my hand to lead me onto the field. I looked around quickly to see if
anybody was watching before following her. She was like a possessed child as
she ran around, playfully stepping on every displaced piece of turf she could
see, laughing wildly all the way. It looked like the most fun she had had for a
long time. Suddenly she tripped, and I managed to catch her before she fell
embarrassingly to the ground. And then something happened that I couldn’t
really explain. As I held her in my arms, she paused and stared into my eyes.
It didn’t last long, but I was sure we both felt the connection. She stood up
and stumbled off the field. Alice didn’t say another word to me for the rest of
the game, and I worried that I had upset her somehow.

Abdallah trotted over on his horse to speak to
us at the end of the match.

‘Great game, Abdallah!’ I said as he
approached, although in truth I had watched very little of it.

‘Thanks, guys. You know, I only took up polo
when I got bored of shooting. Look how much I am sweating now! I should go back
to shooting, I think,’ he joked and we all laughed. Alice wasn’t paying
attention.

‘Abdallah, thank you for the invitation today,
but I’m afraid we have to make a move,’ said Jerome.

‘No problem, thanks for coming, guys.’ He
looked around to check the coast was clear before whispering, ‘Let’s party
soon.’ He winked before riding back towards the field.

‘Let’s get out of here, dude,’ said Jerome and
began to walk to the car.

‘You go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a
sec.’

‘Where the hell are you going?’

‘I forgot something! I’ll meet you at the car.’

I rushed over to Alice, who was preparing a
plate of sandwiches and cakes for Zaid.

‘I’m leaving, Alice. It was really nice to meet
you. I just wanted to say goodbye.’

‘You’re sweating. Here, wipe your brow with
this.’ She handed me a folded white napkin, which I used and put in my pocket. ‘It
was nice to meet you too. Perhaps I will see you around.’ She kissed my cheek,
smiled and walked away.

‘What was that about?’ asked Jerome as I got
into the car.

‘Nothing. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,
that’s all.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you didn’t. Listen, mate, here
is some advice: don’t do anything stupid! You don’t want to get your balls
chopped off now, do you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was
just being nice.’

‘Yeah, sure you were. I saw how you two were
getting friendly. Are you a fucking idiot?’

‘Jerome, it’s nothing like that. We were just
talking, that’s all.’

‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘For your sake.’

As Jerome drove away, I reached into my pocket
for the napkin Alice had given me. I noticed a pink smear on the inside and
opened it up to investigate. The smear was in fact a full imprint of a kiss.
Below it was a phone number, followed by the words ‘call me x’.

I held onto it for the rest of the journey, carefully
hiding it from Jerome, and spent the rest of the drive deep in thought. But as
we finally pulled into the Emirates Towers, I rolled down the window and threw
the napkin out of the window.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay, whatever, mate. Let’s catch up tomorrow
to talk some business.
Ciao
.’

As I walked into the hotel lobby, I thought
about what I had just done. I had certainly felt the chemistry with Alice, and
her note was proof that she had too. It was obvious that she was looking to
escape from Abdallah and Dubai, and she had money at her disposal. Romantic
ideas of running away with her to some far corner of the world had passed through
my mind during the drive back. She was beautiful, intelligent and rich. But who
was I kidding? Even if we did elope, Abdallah would find us in no time and use
his
wasta
to have my head chopped off, or worse.

I had more important things on my plate right
now than saving damsels in distress and risking my life in the process. I
needed to stay focused. I had my fortune to make, and there was not a moment
more to waste on frivolous distractions.

It was a good time in history to be an Emirati. The
Bedouin ancestors of today’s Arabs had lived in simple Barasti huts made from
mud and palm fronds. After a long day of trading on the docks or diving for
pearls, they pumped water from the communal well before skinning a goat and
roasting it over an open fire to be shared among the tribe.

Today, the 4x4 had replaced the camel and mud
huts had made way for mansions. Young Emiratis cruised in fully loaded Range
Rovers, sipped skinny cappuccinos, and feasted on American cheese burgers and
milkshakes after a spot of skiing at the mall. Endless hours were passed in
spas, nail salons and beauty parlours, and money was never a concern. Life for
the modern Arab was a breeze.

In a rigidly hierarchical social order, the
Emiratis sat comfortably unchallenged at its peak. They constituted a special
‘leisure class’, a unique position of privilege that the expatriate workforce
could only aspire for, but never reach. Emiratis were granted subsidised homes
and allowances for their children, the state paid for their education up to PhD
level, and they enjoyed unlimited access to free healthcare. Every Emirati
household had an army of maids, nannies and drivers to service their every need
and desire.

While the majority of expats worked tirelessly
to maintain their lifestyle, Emiratis lived luxurious lives of endless
pampering and indulgence. Such were the benefits of an unspoken contract of
convenience whereby the Maktoum dynasty consolidated its rule and governed
unchallenged. In exchange for a generous list of privileges, Sheikh Mohammed
had effectively bought the loyalty of the clan. This was the way tribal rule
had been organised for centuries, and it was the only form of rule the Emiratis
had ever known.

With disposable income and time, it was no
surprise that the national pastime of Emirati society was shopping. The
epicentre of Emirati social life in Dubai was the mall, to which they would
flock in their hundreds every day to shop tirelessly at the mainstream designer
outlets. Retailers were fully aware of the indulgent tastes and bulging wallets
of their brand-obsessed customers, and many even created exclusive products
catering to their specific preferences. Dior made headscarves for the Emirati
woman and Armani offered traditional Bedouin-style men’s sandals with the
designer label slapped across them in full view.

But aside from the unbridled consumerism, the malls
also provided a fertile hunting ground for testosterone-charged young Arab men
to scope the local talent discreetly. Dating in the Western sense among young
Emiratis was not permitted by Islamic tradition, which dictated that only
married couples could be seen together without a chaperone. But that didn’t
stop sexually charged Arabs from bending the rules and conjuring up creative
ways to make contact with the opposite sex.

Among the most popular tactics was dropping a scrap
of paper with their phone number at the feet of an attractive woman as they
walked past, or throwing a note through the passenger seat window as a local
girl stopped at a traffic light. But as exhilarating as this sounded, it was
also extremely risky. If the father or older brother of the target became
aware, the consequences could be fatal. Honour was paramount in an Emirati’s
household and any challenge had to be dealt with severely.

Perhaps it was these restrictions that drove
many young local men to begin chasing expats for their kicks instead. They were
spoilt for choice in modern Dubai, which offered an assortment of single women
from every nationality and ethnicity, many of them seeking their own Prince Charming
to whisk them away to a desert palace. Emirati charmers would offer lavish
gifts of designer bags, expensive jewellery and even fast cars to woo their
foreign sweethearts. But there was a sinister side to this chivalrous game.
Disturbing stories became increasingly common of young Western women being
followed home by a group of horny local men or forced off the road by an
Emirati stranger and harassed for a phone number. As sexual deviance and
infidelity increased, it was no surprise that divorce rates among Emirati
couples were the highest in the Gulf. 

With all of these distractions, it seemed that a
nine-to-five job was a frightful inconvenience for most young Emiratis, and
many avoided the hassle. Those who did opt to work usually took a low-key
position in the public sector. A government post offered a job for life with
convenient working hours, a steadily increasing salary and insulation from the
horrors of private enterprise. Nevertheless, it was soon apparent that there
were simply not enough public-sector jobs for the growing Emirati population,
and fear of mass unemployment among locals motivated the government to take
action.

The ‘Emiratisation’ policy was implemented amid
concerns that an escalating expatriate workforce was taking over the leadership
of the main economic sectors. It was effectively a policy of affirmative action
through a quota system for the private sector to take on a predetermined number
of UAE nationals in key areas such as banking, engineering, construction and
services. There were harsh penalties for private-sector firms that did not
comply, so many were forced to cooperate against their will.

In reality, Emiratisation was positive
discrimination on steroids. In one case, a semi-governmental telecommunications
company laid off about a hundred and fifty of its largely Asian workforce so it
could increase its required level of Emirati workers from 43 per cent to 50 per
cent to meet the quota. While workers in the West were living in fear of losing
their jobs to cheaper Asian labour, Asians in Dubai were losing out to more
expensive and less skilled Emiratis.

Although some private-sector firms welcomed
Emirati employees for their contacts and knowledge of local customs and
wasta
,
many were not so optimistic. Most UAE nationals were unskilled for private-sector
jobs and were simply not willing to take entry-level positions and work their
way up. Many preferred to remain unemployed than accept demeaning work as a
taxi driver or a waiter. In their eyes such menial jobs were reserved for foreigners
alone, and to accept such a lowly position would only encourage unspeakable
dishonour and shame from the community.

***

There was no denying it. The display on my bedside alarm
clock was indisputable proof: the outside temperature had now reached a
scorching fifty degrees Celsius! Curiously, official statistics still never
seemed to top forty-nine, and there were a number of conspiracies about why
this may be the case. Dubai’s authorities didn’t want to put off the tourists
with official statistics indicating the true extent of the heat; and as the law
stated that labourers had to stop working if the temperature hit fifty degrees,
it was obvious why the government preferred to keep it quiet.

But the heat was the least of my worries right
now. The extremes of the Dubai lifestyle were finally catching up with me in
other ways, and I was beginning to notice the devastating effects. As I brushed
my teeth, I was mortified when I could no longer see my toes under my ever-expanding
belly and my once-chiselled jaw line was slowly disappearing under a layer of
fat. The weekly brunches and midnight cheeseburgers had taken their toll on my formerly
athletic physique. It seemed I was the latest victim of an epidemic that was
claiming unsuspecting Dubai expats every day – a condition widely known as the
‘Dubai stone’. Its causes were simple: a deadly cocktail of late nights, all-you-can-eat
buffets and a lack of physical exercise. I was horrified with myself, although I
couldn’t say I hadn’t been warned. It was said that every new Dubai resident
would be an eventual casualty, so it was only a matter of time.

I was also succumbing to the fact that expat
life in Dubai was not as comfortable as I had been led to believe. Endless
traffic jams, laborious bureaucracy and backward processes were all beginning
to eat away at my patience. Simple tasks like getting a mobile phone or an
internet connection required a plethora of unnecessary paperwork. Home comforts
like my favourite breakfast cereal and chocolate biscuits were seldom available
at the local Dubai supermarket, and if they were it was for triple the price
which meant I often had to do without. And calling my family back home meant
departing with a small fortune, as the city’s only network operator held a
tight monopoly on all international calls, meaning an extortionate per-minute
rate that was taking a toll on my bank balance.

The only vaguely good news was that I had
finally found a place to live, although it was hardly my dream apartment. A
friend of Jerome’s had told him about a small studio in a run-down villa in
Jumeirah that was soon to be vacated by a British teacher who was relocating to
Qatar. It was a far cry from the luxury, sea-facing duplex I had hoped for, but
considering my lack of options and the ever-looming fear of having to relocate
to Sharjah, I had no choice but to take it.

The room was on the ground floor of an old
house and it just about fell into my price range. It was only big enough for a
bed and a wardrobe, but it had an en-suite bathroom and didn’t smell too bad. I
managed to negotiate with the landlord to pay the year’s rent in three cheques,
which was unheard of in most cases, so I counted myself lucky. Besides, it was
only a temporary solution, as I was certain my big break was right around the
corner. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

Things at work weren’t too rosy either. As a
junior salesman, my job was to sell the bank’s financial products to wealthy
clients in Dubai. Asim had given me a list of his weakest relationships that I
was expected to cold call and generate business from, but so far I had hit
brick wall after brick wall. Clients didn’t want the exotic derivatives or
bonds we were trying to peddle, and as hard as I tried to push the merits of an
interest-rate swap or a call option, there was only one question that kept
cropping up in response: ‘What do you have in property?’

In 2005, there were few investments in the
world that were generating returns like Dubai real estate, and investors simply
didn’t want to look at anything else. I was facing an uphill task and my team
and boss were hardly the support network I desperately needed. I had been right
to presume the lack of interaction with my colleagues, and my conversation with
them failed to extend beyond ‘good morning’ on most days.

I soon gathered, however, that it was nothing
personal against me, but a matter of money. By virtue of the very fact that I
was British, I was probably earning at least twice what my Indian colleagues
were. Of course it was unfair; many of them were older and more experienced
than I was, and there was no rational reason for me to be paid more. But
Dubai’s pay structure was not based on merit – British passport holders were
almost always paid more than Indians or Pakistanis, based on an unsubstantiated
perception that Western labour was always more valuable. Through no fault of my
own, I was an outsider to their world and they didn’t try to hide it.  

And then just three months into my career at
Imperial Bank, things got even worse when Asim called me into his office for a
chat.

‘Yes, Asim, you wanted to speak to me?’ I asked
as I nervously stepped inside his corner office.

‘Yes, take a seat.’ I did as I was told. ‘I
have some news.’

‘Okay...’

‘I’m not sure how to break it to you. This will
be my last week at Imperial Bank.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I have decided to take up an offer as a director
of capital markets with a US investment bank that recently opened a Dubai
office. They head-hunted me for my experience and contacts. It was too good to
turn down.’

‘But what about me? I’ve only just joined!’

‘Don’t worry. The guys will help you out until
they find a replacement for me. I’m sure you will be fine.’

If by the ‘guys’ he was referring to Deepak,
Ram and Sanjay, I knew I was screwed. There was no way in hell these guys were
going to watch my back. I wished him good luck and went back to my desk almost
in tears. I couldn’t blame Asim for taking the offer; it was a big deal for a
young Pakistani banker to get headhunted by a top-tier American bank, and he
would probably be paid at least triple his current salary. But the fact that he
hadn’t even considered his responsibility to mentor and train me was deeply
upsetting. My banking career was quickly going down the toilet and I needed a
back-up fast.

It had been over a week since Jerome and I had
been to watch Abdallah at the polo club, and we still hadn’t met up as he had
promised. I was getting anxious that Saff would figure I was a fraud and drop
his interest in the plot. And with the way things were going at work, there was
more riding on the deal now than ever. I had to act fast if I was going to
salvage my future. I called him immediately.

‘Jerome, where have you been?’

‘Dude, work has been a nightmare.’

‘Okay, but we were meant to meet last week!’

‘Can you meet me in thirty minutes at the Mall
of the Emirates?’

I was taken aback by hi response. ‘Erm, okay,
sure. See you there.’

The Mall of the Emirates was packed every
Saturday afternoon, and today was no different. It was by far the most
grandiose of Dubai’s super-malls, boasting luxury fashion boutiques, cutting-edge
furniture shops and international department stores combining the best of Bond
Street, Fifth Avenue and the Rue de la Paix under one giant roof of retail
indulgence. Locals and expats alike would spend endless hours browsing the
hundreds of boutiques and megastores until late into the night.

The undisputed centrepiece of the giant MOE was
the incredible Ski Dubai, an indoor winter wonderland boasting a life-size ski
slope complete with chair lifts, snow-dusted trees and real snowmen. In a
region where the annual recorded snowfall was zero, Ski Dubai was something of
a miracle boasting five impressive slopes, including the world’s first indoor
black run. While temperatures hit a scorching forty-five degrees outside, avid
skiers and snowboarders could pretend they were on the slopes of Chamonix in
sub-zero temperatures in the planet’s largest refrigerator. For many, it was
the closest they would get to real snow in their lives.