Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (14 page)

‘So, Alesia, I really appreciate your time to
give me your views on the property market, and perhaps help me with a decision
to invest.’

‘My pleasure. You just tell me exactly what you
want and I’ll do what I can to give it to you.’ I almost choked on my water. ‘But
why don’t we get to know each other a little first?’

‘Erm, okay, sure.’

‘I can see you look good, you dress well and
you obviously have money. So what’s your story?’

‘Well, I’m from London. My father made his
money in construction and I joined the family business two years ago.’ It wasn’t
the best on-the-spot lie I had ever told, but I was sure it was what she wanted
to hear.

‘Wow. Lucky boy.’

‘Now my father wants to diversify his
investments into Dubai and that’s why I’m here. And what’s your story, Alesia?’

She suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t
think you want to know my story.’

‘No, I do!’ I insisted.

‘It’s not as rosy as yours, believe me.’

‘I would really love to hear it.’

She sighed. ‘Well, I am from Kazakhstan. I grew
up very poor in a one-room apartment with my four sisters and my mother. My
father died before I was born, so we grew up with barely enough to eat. I
hardly went to school and worked in a bottle factory from the age of 14 just to
put food on the table. I left my family alone for Dubai two years ago to make a
better life for myself. I somehow got involved in property, and now I’m living
on the Palm, driving a Mercedes and making $50,000 a month in commissions. How
life changes… Shall we order?’

I was speechless. As we tucked into our
delicious starters, I brought the conversation back to business again. ‘So how
long do you think the market can keep going up for?’

‘I’m sure it will keep on rising.’ She caressed
her wine glass with her blood-red lips and stared at me seductively with her
bed-me-now eyes. The more I studied her, the more I wanted her.

‘But where will it peak?’

‘You mean climax?’

I blushed. ‘Yes, exactly, there has to be a
point where it comes to a head.’

‘Maybe. But that won’t happen any time soon.
There’s too much fun to have yet.’ I felt a foot begin to caress my leg under
the table, which almost made me jump out of my seat. 

‘Alesia, can you excuse me for a moment please?’

‘Of course. Is everything okay?’ she asked with
a naughty grin.

‘Fine. Just fine.’

I rushed to the bathroom and locked the door
behind me. 

‘Pull yourself together, man! It’s just a
business meeting!’ I washed my hands with cold water and patted my face to cool
down. After a few deep breathes, I made my way back to the table and sat down.

‘What do you say we get out of here?’ said
Alesia in a commanding tone.

‘But you haven’t finished your risotto.’

‘Fuck the risotto.’

We rushed out over the pier and through the
hotel lobby to jump in a taxi.

‘Take us to the 400 Club,’ she ordered the
driver. I felt a hand creep up my thigh as she began to caress my earlobe with
her tongue. I closed my eyes, but I was annoyingly interrupted by the
continuous coughing of the Pakistani taxi driver, who looked nervous at the
debauchery that was unfolding in the back seat of his cab. Alesia ignored him
and jumped onto my lap as I began to kiss her neck.

‘400 Club, we are here!’ shouted the taxi
driver with a sigh of relief. I threw a hundred dirhams on the passenger seat
as Alesia grabbed my hand and we ran towards the club. There was a huge crowd
outside desperate to get in, but the bouncer opened the velvet rope for us as
soon as he saw Alesia approaching.

‘Thanks, darling,’ she said as we strolled in.

‘You know him?’ I asked.   

‘Yeah, kinda. I sold him an apartment in JBR
last week. He has a portfolio of ten now.’

We walked down an opulent staircase into the
packed club below. The party was in full swing as the revellers swayed to the
funky house music. The crowd was beautiful; everybody here looked like a model.
Yet the entire club paused the moment Alesia arrived. Every man wanted her, and
every woman despised her because of it. We walked over to the bar and Alesia
started to dance seductively against my thigh.

‘What do you want?’ I shouted over the music.

‘A chocolate martini.’

As I ordered, Alesia put my hands on her toned
hips and began to grind me seductively. I could feel her every curve against my
groin and my head almost exploded.

‘I need the bathroom, be right back!’ she said.

I grabbed the drinks and waited for her
outside. As soon as she emerged, she stared into my eyes and kissed my lips
passionately.

‘Take me home now,’ she whispered into my ear.
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I took her hand and we ran up the stairs.

‘Your place or mine?’ I asked as we got into
the taxi.

‘Mine.’

‘Palm Jumeirah, please, driver,’ I shouted.  

I wanted her now more than anything and I
couldn’t wait to get her home. We pulled up outside her apartment block not a
moment too soon. I had to button up my shirt just to make myself look decent
before preparing to get out. I paid the driver and we stepped out of the taxi
together. But as I grabbed Alesia’s hand to guide her upstairs, she resisted.

‘Wait,’ she said.

‘What is it?’

‘Wait, we need to agree first.’

‘Agree what?’

‘Agree the price.’

‘What price?’

‘Three thousand dirhams for the whole night. Is
that okay?’

I was completely confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a special price for you, I promise. I
usually ask for more. Just three thousand dirhams and as many times as you like.’

Suddenly, the penny dropped and my heart sank
into my stomach. I let go of her hand and got back into the taxi, slamming the
passenger door shut. Alesia looked stunned. 

‘Driver, take me home, please,’ I said. ‘Now.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The driver was clearly confused,
but he did as he was told.

As we began to pull away, I looked through the
rear-view window and saw Alesia standing alone in the street in complete shock.
She had probably never been rejected for her services before in her life.

It was about time she had a taste of how it
felt.

The irritating sound of hammering on steel was driving me
insane! The secret preparations for the DIFC anniversary ball had been going on
for weeks, and most of it seemed to be happening outside my office window. It
was billed as one of the most exclusive social events of the year: a gala
celebration to commemorate the growth of the DIFC and its vision to become the
world’s fastest-growing financial centre. The guest list was expected to run
like a ‘Who’s Who’ of Dubai’s elite: royalty, dignitaries, senior government figures
and CEOs. It was sure be the networking event of the century, an opportunity I
couldn’t afford to miss.

But as a lowly junior banker I also knew there
was no chance in hell I would be getting a formal invitation in the mail. I
needed to think outside the box if I was going to have any chance of getting
in. It was time to pick up the phone and harness some
wasta
.

‘Hani, how’s it going?’

‘Hey, I’m good bro. Where have you been?’

‘I’m sorry for not being in touch, things have
been a bit crazy lately. Listen, I need a huge favour.’

‘Sure, what’s up?’

‘Do you know anybody who can get me a ticket
for the DIFC ball next week?’

He burst out laughing. ‘Let me get this
straight, the banker is asking me to get him into a banking event?’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘That’s priceless! Okay, listen, I think LBC is
covering the event for the ten o’clock news. I might be able to get you a press
pass if you can pretend to be an LBC journalist.’

‘I think I can manage that. Obviously I would
need to dress down a little…’

‘You rascal!’ snapped Hani.

‘Can you look into it for me?’

‘Sure. Let me see what I can do!’

As promised, Hani came through a couple of days
later with a press invitation. On the night of the party I pulled out my old
beer-stained Oxford tuxedo and jumped into a taxi to attend the event of the
year.

As I pulled up to the DIFC, the grounds were
unrecognisable. The financial centre had been transformed into an impressive
outdoor wonderland. There were ice sculptures, acrobats fire breathers and
human mannequins. Scattered across the vast grounds were hundreds of senior
bankers in expensive black tuxedos, with their much younger and more glamorous
‘plus ones’ in their elegant designer ball gowns and sexy cocktail dresses.
There were also dozens of Emirati men in traditional
thobes
, although
their wives were notably absent. A four-piece orchestra set a sophisticated
mood as the distinguished guests hobnobbed and busy waitresses precariously hoisted
trays of cocktails and fruit juices as they weaved through the crowds.

 I walked around eagerly searching for
important-looking people to schmooze with. As I picked up snippets of
conversations, there was little talk of finance. Instead, everybody was discussing
property!

‘I just flipped a floor in the Business Bay,’
boasted an older British man while puffing on a cigar. ‘Picked it up at twelve
hundred dirhams per square foot and flipped it at eighteen.’

‘That’s great. I was in a couple of floors in
the Jumeirah Lake Towers,’ replied a slightly younger man with thick glasses
and a French accent. ‘I managed to get out of both in a month. The developer
won’t start construction for a couple of years and I’ve already made my money!’

‘The developer has reserved ten units for me at
the pre-launch of their new project tomorrow. He says I can sell it within a
week at the official launch party when some fool thinks he’s actually paying
launch price. As they say, it’s all about who you know in this city,’ added
another Asian man.

Eventually the orchestra stopped and the crowds
were ushered towards a giant grandstand erected in front of buildings three and
four. I scanned the area for a vacant seat and spotted an older man with a
bushy moustache and shock of grey hair sitting alone. He looked suitably
important, so I rushed over to take the empty seat next to him before anybody
else could claim it. But to my annoyance, his lady friend arrived seconds
before I did and sat down leaving me stranded.

The grandstand was filling up fast and as I
scuttled back towards the aisle still seeking a good spot, a scruffy looking
man abruptly crashed his behind into the seat next to where I was standing,
blocking my exit route.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated as the
show will be beginning shortly,’ said the announcer.

As the lights began to go down, I had no choice
but to take the empty seat beside the bedraggled man. My plan had failed
miserably; he certainly didn’t look very useful to my grand networking plan.
Just moments after I reluctantly sat down, his constant fidgeting was already
beginning to drive me crazy.

‘What the hell do these bloody Arabs know about
putting on a decent show?’ he proclaimed in an American accent, moments before
the show began. I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was talking to me directly,
so I smiled back politely. ‘You know, I won’t be surprised if they start doing
a bloody sword dance for the next couple of hours. If they do, please freaking
shoot me now!’ An Emirati couple in the row in front looked offended by his
direct comments, and shook their heads in disgust. ‘You know, it’s all smoke
and mirrors, this place,’ he continued. ‘Don’t believe the hype! Just because
you build a few nice buildings doesn’t mean shit. It’s a mirage. These people
are as savage as they have been for a thousand years, chopping each other’s
heads off and shit. I swear to God...’

Another appalled European couple beside me
couldn’t believe their ears and stared at him with a look of shock, but he
didn’t seem to care. Yet as rude as he seemed, I was somewhat intrigued by this
uncouth stranger. It was the first time since arriving in Dubai that I had
heard somebody speak so negatively about the city, and I was interested to know
why. But before I could think about introducing myself, the lights went down
and the crowd fell silent. The show was starting. 

A small Emirati man dressed in a
dishdasha
stumbled onto the stage, nervously clasping his script. He approached the
microphone stand and there was awkward pause before he began to speak. ‘Your R-r-royal
Highnesses, la-la-ladies and gentlemen, friends and, and, and... distinguished
guests. I would like to welcome you to this wonderful event... this evening.’
His English wasn’t perfect and his nerves were clearly getting the better of
him.

‘This is the guy Sheikh Mohammed has hand-picked
to lead the financial centre?’ whispered the scruffy man to me and rolled his
eyes. ‘God help us!’

After mumbling the rest of his monotonous
speech, the Emirati finally plodded off the stage as unimpressively as he had
arrived, to the sound of muted applause. If his dreary delivery was a sign of
things to come, we were certainly in for a bore. Suddnly, the seating stands
shook and the ground rumbled. A giant kabuki dropped to reveal a three-hundred-piece
choir suspended high between buildings three and four singing a haunting
rendition of Ravel’s Balero. Finally, the reason for the long painful weeks of
construction work outside my office made sense, and the awesome spectacle
seemed worth it. And so began an impressive performance of Arabic opera
singers, classical dancers and theatre. The entire audience was captivated from
the start, except the scruffy man, who looked disdainfully unimpressed.

Throughout the show, he continued to fidget
constantly and huff with disapproval. And just half an hour in, it seemed he
had had enough and pushed his way to the exit, to a chorus of sighs and huffs from
the audience behind him. I decided to follow him. I excused myself, rushed down
the steps and headed towards the grounds outside, where I spotted him helping
himself to the grand buffet.

‘Buddy, you gotta try these prawns,’ he said as
I approached. ‘Fuckin’ awesome. Only reason I came tonight was for these prawns.’
His plate was piled precariously high already, but it didn’t stop him from
piling on more.

‘So was the show as bad as you thought?’ I
asked, tucking into some tuna sashimi and chicken dumplings.

‘I told you, man, these guys have no fucking
clue. I’m surprised they know how to wipe their own asses in the morning. What
the hell could Arabs know about opera? What they can’t get through their stupid
heads is you can’t buy culture and class! Good taste takes years to refine.
They should stick to camels and falconry, I swear to God.’ I noticed a drop of
ketchup on his chin, but I decided not to point it out and embarrass him. ‘So
what are you, a journalist?’

‘No, I’m actually a banker.’

‘So why the hell are you wearing that LBC press
pass?’

‘Oh, I forgot about that.’ I tucked it away
into my shirt.

‘Come on, dude, you can’t fool me! You crashed
this party, right?’

‘Well, yes, kind of,’ I replied sheepishly.  

‘Nice! Good for you. Worth it just for the free
dinner, I say. That’s the only reason I’m here. It’s a decent spread, too. Glad
to say they got something right.’ He was certainly correct about that. It
seemed that no expense had been spared on the endless buffet of food in front
of us, which featured delights from almost every cuisine imaginable. ‘So which
bank do you work for?’

‘I work for Imperial Bank, in building one
behind you,’ I replied and pointed at my office.

‘Ah, so we’re neighbours. I’m the CEO of DubCap
Investments in building two, right next door. The name’s Jamal.’ He wiped his
filthy hand on his trousers before offering to shake mine.

‘Great to meet you, Jamal, I’m Adam.’

‘Listen, I’m done here. Like I said, I only
came for the food. You know what, you got some balls, kid. Here’s my card.
Maybe we can grab lunch some time.’

‘Thanks. That would be great!’

A rapturous round of applause erupted in the
grandstand behind us to mark the end of the night’s performances. Jamal licked
his fingers and released a giant burp.

‘That’s my cue to leave. See ya later. Call me!’

As he made his way towards the taxis, a giant
fireworks display lit up the night sky behind me as hundreds of guests
converged on the buffet, which was now out of prawns. 

***

Getting out of bed the following morning was no easy feat.
I was tired and grumpy, and in desperate need of coffee. I somehow stumbled
into a taxi to Starbucks wearing dark shades and a cap to get my caffeine fix
as inconspicuously as possible.

‘Hello, sir, howwww arrrreeee youuuuu!’
screamed the bright-eyed barista. Great, the last thing I needed right now was
a high-on-life Filipino.

‘Erm, yeah, I’m good. Can I get a black
Americano, extra hot?’ I said in a croaky voice.

‘Of course! What size, sirrrrrr?’ His loud,
whiny voice ricocheted against every corner of my skull.

‘Small. Just small is fine,’ I mumbled.

‘Small, sirrrrr?’

‘Yes. Small.’

‘Sorry, sir, smallllll?’

That was the last straw and I totally lost it. ‘Didn’t
you fucking hear me the first time?’ I screamed. ‘Yes, I said small! What’s
wrong with you people? I said small! SMALL!’

The barista froze and turned white with fear. ‘Sorry,
sirrrr,’ he whispered under his breath, trying desperately to hold back his
tears. ‘I thought you said tall...’

 A wave of guilt suddenly overcame me as I
began to calm down. ‘It’s okay. Look, I didn’t mean to shout at you like that.’

‘It’s ok, sirr,’ he whispered, his bottom lip
quivering uncontrollably. But I could see it wasn’t really okay at all.

I had no idea why I snapped like that. It was
out of character for me; the poor barista was only doing his job. Perhaps my
frustration had finally boiled over; a reaction to the recent setbacks I had
faced that were now finding an outlet. Or maybe the real reason was something
much more terrifying. Could I be becoming the obnoxious and self-obsessed
Western expat I had always dreaded? Was I finally buying into the ethnic
hierarchy of Dubai that I had found so abhorrent? The thought alone terrified
me. I paid for my coffee and took a seat in the furthest corner, out of sight.

As I was putting my change back in my wallet,
Jamal’s business card fell onto the table. I picked it up and thought about our
conversation at the ball last night. I felt guilty that I had judged him a
little unfairly; I had actually enjoyed our brief chat. He was, after all, the
CEO of a financial institution and he could surely be a useful contact for me.
I didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day, so I decided to see if he was
free to meet.

‘Yeah?’ he answered.

‘Hey, Jamal? I’m not sure if you remember me. It’s
Adam, the guy with the press pass you met at the party last night.’

‘Who?’

‘We met at the DIFC event. You told me to try
the prawns?’

There was a pause. ‘Oh yeah, the party crasher.
How you doing, dude? Listen, I’m caught up in a meeting right now. How about I
call you back in an hour?’

‘Sure, that would be fine...’

Three and a half hours later, he called me back
as promised.

‘Hey, buddy, you wanna grab a bite?’

‘Sure!’ I replied.

‘Let’s meet at Chilli’s restaurant at the Mall
of the Emirates in half an hour.’

‘Sounds good, I’ll see you there.’

I left my apartment and jumped into a passing
cab.

‘One thousand dirhams per square foot! Very
good price, I close deal today!’ shouted the taxi driver at his phone. It
seemed he hadn’t even noticed me get in.

I feigned a cough to get his attention. ‘Mall
of the Emirates, please.’ There was no response.

‘You tell me seven hundred, I tell you one
thousand! This is my best price. Okay, we close deal today!’

‘Excuse me!’ I shouted. The driver turned
around and stared at me angrily.