by Becky Wicks
Sadly, though, the only thing the people behind the ‘bar’ seemed to sell, besides hot rice-based dishes, was fruit juice and Red Bull. I don’t think this was the samosa place.
We snuck back out into the car park, feeling a little bit like Alice must have felt after waking up from her dream. What a wonderful, magical place to have as a local eatery — even if we never dare to step inside again. It definitely isn’t the lunchtime experience of old, when I’d wander out of the office door, through the next one, pick up a Ribena and a tuna sandwich and leave again — not so unimpressed as completely oblivious as to what I’d just done.
It’s funny how heading out for food on your lunch break can become so routine; how the monotony of it all can eventually force entire hours out of your head as you drift somewhere else, anywhere else in what little spare time you have. But just as Narnia sleeps untouched by most inside that wardrobe, the shisha/cricket place that hides downstairs across the car park isn’t even of this world. Not of my normal world anyway.
The American seemed disappointed we didn’t find our samosas, but until I get a little more adventurous, and unless I want a giant bed or an energy drink for lunch in this part of Dubai, I’m probably better off just bringing a lunchbox.
08/07
Sheikh, rattle and roll …
There are some parts of this city that take my breath away — a glamorous, special side that’s far removed from the carpet stores and car parks of our office neighbourhood; a side that dazzles with the glitz of Vegas, the promise of Manhattan and the rough-and-ready charms of London. It might seem a tiny bit fake, some of it, but everywhere I’ve been this weekend I’ve been struck with an awesome sense of how much could be mine for the taking, whether or not I can afford it right now. I’ve landed in a place that’s being built around me and for me, and anything I can add to help it grow will probably be welcomed with open arms.
To think that until the late fifties Dubai was a teeny-weeny port for pearl fishermen and smugglers! They got their water from wells and lived in houses made from palm leaves. Now, some of those same people are undoubtedly scratching their heads in bewilderment, just like Stacey and I were when we first found ourselves being ferried about in cab after cab after cab, owing to the lack of pavements. They surely must be wondering what’s going on, these people. Their humble port is growing at the speed of light. Everywhere you look there are cranes, construction and boarded-up sites concealing absolute chaos. But rising like a phoenix from the flames, every few metres is a building of such majestic beauty you can barely believe you’re allowed inside. There’s an air of uprooted anxiety and excitement that definitely rubs off on you. Sometimes, even when I find myself gawping like a goldfish out of water, I feel a sort of twisting in my stomach at the prospect of getting a personal slice of such incredible success!
On Friday, Stacey and I met The Trader for our first Dubai brunch at Waxy O’Connor’s. Inside, it was much like any other Irish pub you might encounter, only like an ugly sister overshadowed by her beautiful sibling, this dirty hole is attached to the side of a posh, five-star hotel. Waxy’s is renowned for offering ‘the booziest brunch in town’ and may I add that it’s got nothing to do with the pub of the same name in Leicester Square, in which I once had a rather unfortunate encounter with a box of magic mushrooms and a homeless woman on speed. But that’s another story.
The Trader is another friend of a friend whom I’ve never met before. It’s looking like everyone in Dubai is a friend of a friend, or just a friend you haven’t met yet but soon will because the place is just so damn small. The Trader is raking it in already, and he’s only been here a few weeks longer than we have. His company is putting him up in the Marina (très expensive) and he’ll soon be buying his own place here with a view of the yachts and rising skyscrapers. He’s just bought a Porsche 911 with terracotta seats. That’s the colour, he tells us. They’re not actually made from terracotta. (I nod — I know nothing about cars.)
He’s a friendly guy who has two mobile phones and a girlfriend overseas. Stacey and I reckon he’s a pretty busy man but we sat there for most of the day in dank darkness, drinking, laughing and pretending we were nothing like the other expats congregating in the shadows, pretending in turn that they were nothing like us. In truth, I think we were all escaping the real world and trying our damned hardest not to experience the real, suffocating, intimidating Dubai. In Ireland, everyone feels at home (or is just drunk, perhaps).
We paid the equivalent of eight quid for an unlimited brunch including a full English breakfast and, after 1 pm, a lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings, plus five drinks of our choosing. I’m told it’s not the gluttonous affair that some hotels afford, in which vast ballrooms draped in glittering fabrics and bordered by ice sculptures lure you to a hundred food stations, offering every dish you can imagine and even more that you can’t. I’m going to one of those soon, but Waxy’s, so I’m told, is a bit of a Dubai institution. An initiation, of sorts. You have to do it to prepare yourself for the rest.
When the air became too thick to breathe and the drunken expat engineers too much to handle, we got a cab to The Trader’s place in the Marina. The view is to die for, although if I’m honest you have to look beyond a million cranes, bulldozers and dusty vacant building foundations to see the sea.
His place is a far cry from any apartment I ever saw in London. It’s a two-bedroom flat on a pretty high floor and when he moved in not only had it been furnished (almost unheard of in a rental here), it had all been laid out like a showroom. The dinner table was even set as though he was expecting six guests, complete with fancy napkins and cutlery beside each mat. He hasn’t changed it. It was a bit like walking into IKEA. I half expected to be handed a giant yellow basket and a brochure. Still, I’d love to live in a place like that, where you can literally watch the world grow around you. It’s going to be beautiful, inspirational even … when it’s finished.
What happened after that is a bit of a blur, but we cabbed it to the Hard Rock Café for some cocktails — something I would never even dream of doing anywhere else. I’m told that fifteen years ago the Hard Rock Café was the furthest point you could reach in Dubai. Cabs were reluctant to take people so far out of the city back then, and the place used to be attached to a seedy hotel, which is how it got its liquor licence. This part was shut down, and now the bar/restaurant sits in the middle of a spaghetti junction with central Dubai in one direction and Abu Dhabi in the other. It seems sort of lonely now. The giant guitars on the forecourt make it look a bit like a sad, abandoned theme park attraction.
It was at the Hard Rock Café that we managed to recruit two blokes from the navy — lovely guys who then joined us for a karaoke venture at a place called Harry Ghatto’s. This bar, with a name like my favourite dessert, is an exclusive, teeny little venue in the Emirates Towers, which starts pumping karaoke at 10 pm, along with ludicrously expensive drinks. By the end of the night I felt like I knew everyone in there — and I’d sung duets with most of them, too. A couple of Emirati men in full traditional dress were drinking pints and checking out the songbook. Who says sheikhs don’t rock ‘n’ roll?
I also made friends with a private banker. He stole the mic from me with a cheeky grin and a nod of his sandy blonde head, before breaking into a God-awful version of ‘My Way’. He evidently had lots of money because he bought both Stacey and me drinks all night, even before The Trader went home. I’m kind of getting used to not having to buy drinks around here. There seems to be an abundance of very rich men around who are only too happy to take the job off my hands.
Speaking of very rich men, I met a project developer who works in Abu Dhabi, up the road, sort of. He drives the hour and a half to Dubai every weekend because it’s a lot more interesting on the nightlife front, although I seem to remember him telling me a couple of stories that would suggest there’s a lot happening there behind closed doors. A wealthy Arab he works for took him to Kazakhstan on business last week. Dur
ing the trip he said they visited a casino, in which the Arab man produced a bulging envelope full of US hundred-dollar bills and proceeded to gamble half away on various tables. Back in Abu Dhabi, the same guy took him to a party in a villa, which was full of rich locals and beautiful Russian hookers. These girls were allegedly paid for being there, and given a bonus if they screwed.
Still, in spite of what hypocritical nonsense might go on behind the scenes, I’m getting used to an absence of petty criminal activity. I had my bag on the floor by the bar all night in Harry’s as I wandered around talking to people, and didn’t worry about it once. In fact, if you hold your bag close like you have to do in London, you get a funny look here, as though you’re the one who’s shifty.
The phrase ‘there’s no crime in Dubai’ is spoken with conviction. People are too scared to do anything that might land them in jail. One man even left his laptop next to us in Starbucks during the week, in the middle of a shopping mall, when he popped to the loo! I can’t see it staying that way forever, and I wouldn’t go out of my way to test the strength of someone’s character by leaving my bulging wallet out in the middle of a table (if indeed it was ever to bulge), but it’s definitely refreshing.
In other news, we finally checked out the Madinat, which is one of those buildings you just can’t help but gasp at. It’s a huge, palatial sort of affair that’s built to look like a traditional souk or bazaar, sitting between two spectacularly glamorous hotels. It houses numerous shops, bars and restaurants inside and happens to have the most incredible view of the seven-star Burj Al Arab — a large hotel that looks a bit like a multi-coloured cockroach sitting on a perch. We ate a late lunch in a trendy bar with views of a manmade lagoon. Then we went for a glass of very expensive wine and watched the sun set over the sea from the terrace at the Bahri Bar in the über-posh Al Qasr hotel. It was brochure-like, with non-kissy couples cosying up as much as they dared on sofas overlooking the sea.
You know what strikes me as funny, thinking back? What might look like honeymooners to the untrained eye are just standard Dubai residents enjoying the way of life they’ve become accustomed to. I could become accustomed to it, too. What with all of these mini-adventures, I feel like I’m on holiday!
13/07
When good girls get wet and wild …
‘We have to go on ladies’ night!’ Heidi had enthused at work, and the entire office nodded in agreement. Ladies’ night at a water park. Well, it just had to be done really, didn’t it? If I’m quite honest, I thought Heidi, Stacey and I would be the only ones there. I mean, who wants to float around on a rubber ring without a boy to dunk and flirt with? Who wants to hover under a waterfall without a man to snog at sporadic intervals? Shall we just say … the entire female population of Dubai?
Wild Wadi sits close to the Jumeirah Beach Hotel (the one shaped like a wave) and has got an even more incredible view of the Burj Al Arab than the Madinat. It’s so close to this bug-shaped beauty that you can see the people inside.
I must admit, I couldn’t see a bloody thing. I’m taking Stacey’s word for it. I had to take my eyes out as it’s no fun getting chlorine in your contact lenses, but I could decipher a colourful blur against a twinkling horizon, which made a pretty impressive backdrop when standing in line for the Jumeirah Sceirah (supposed to read as scarer but they’ve added a crafty twist). It’s a terrifying open-air slide, 33 metres above the ground. I can report that having now been truly sceired by it, the rumours of having to spend ten minutes afterwards rooting round your backside for your swimming costume are true. The gush of water hits you so fast at the bottom that your crotch sucks everything in like an inbuilt, new-edition Dyson.
Most impressive of all, however, were the people who flocked to this waterlogged ladies’ night, and the swimwear they chose to exhibit. It was nothing short of burqalicious! You have to bear in mind here that even if the men are safely on the outside, this inner-world of liquid delight is still not safe from the eyes of the man upstairs. Women must cover themselves as much as possible. Just. In. Case.
Personally, I would have been pretty excited just to catch a glimpse of the great ‘burkini’. This gorgeous garment is made from UV-and water-protected polyester. Unlike the bikini, it covers the whole body with the exception of the feet, hands and face, thus allowing Muslim women to swim in public. What we got, however, was a whole lot more. In the absence of men it seems these women go slightly crazy. To many, it didn’t even appear to matter that they were in a water park — it was simply an exciting excuse to wear all the things that they would never usually get to wear.
We saw high heels. We saw gym pants. We saw ballet skirts. We even saw a lady in jeans, battling the water in the wave pool — with a toddler. Of course, we saw a lot of sari-scares, too — huge floaty numbers on the bodies of the bashful, billowing out and threatening to swallow surrounding swimmers, tangling them up in their masses like seaweed.
The sight of two girls bobbing along wearing shower caps was a special treat. Not even swim caps, mind. I actually mean shower caps — the flimsy plastic ones you get free in hotel bathrooms, no less. They doggy-paddled past, giggling gaily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that their hair was quite wet beneath these plastic sheaths. As I watched a woman in a red floral summer dress and black leggings have a go on the surfing simulator, I suddenly felt quite underdressed in my bikini. Had I known that the Wild Wadi Ladies’ Night was a fancy dress affair, I would have made a bit more effort. I’ve got some great costumes. I could have blown them all away with my cowgirl outfit, or the Little Red Riding Hood gingham frock and cape from Halloweens past.
Anyway, aside from the hordes of children, and being the token Westerners in the water park, we really did have an awesome night. And how different my life has become from the rain-soaked London affair of just a few weeks ago! Here, just an hour or so after leaving work and wanting to scream as the sweat poured off my body and into my shopping bag, I was floating on a lazy river in a rubber ring, laughing as I bounced into other people and screaming like a hyperactive child. I was on holiday again, actually. There were no worries to dwell on, no work problems left in my head, no cares in the world.
On nights like this I can’t help but feel as though I’ll probably never live in the UK again. It makes me kind of sad, but I guess when you compare this fun-filled, sun-filled lifestyle to howling gales and constant rain, it’s pretty much a given, to be honest.
I’ll never go swimming in a sundress, though. That’s just stupid.
15/07
The joys of being a woman …
Experiencing the visit of my monthly friend at work, I trudged out into the kiln today, across the car park to the little shop in search of some tampons. Call me crazy, but being a little shop in an office car park, I expected them to stock at least a few feminine essentials. Despite housing a back wall crammed full of sanitary towels that had all been stashed out of sight like dirty porn magazines, there were absolutely no tampons to be seen. Anywhere.
I didn’t really know what to do. Stacey didn’t have any, neither did Heidi, and as a newbie in the company I couldn’t very well go round asking everyone. It’s just not the done thing. And I’m sure as hell not buying a massive wad of sanitary towels — they come in packs as big as nappies! Also, other people might think it’s OK to wear a nappy under their skirt in 40 degrees, but I’m afraid I draw the line there.
I stood there, flummoxed. The tissue trick would have been OK had it not been hot, humid and altogether disgusting outside. What to do, what to do …
I remember my friend Sarah telling me once that she had a similar situation in Turkey and Egypt. It’s to do with Muslim women appearing demure and modest, and some Arab men allegedly believing that pads better help achieve this status than tampons. You can buy Tampax and O.b. in the big supermarket chain, Carrefour, as well as other shops in Dubai, though. I’ve seen them. But remembering my friend’s words made me wonder if this particular sweet-looking man was actually a secre
t tampon-basher, scribbling them off his weekly delivery list with hate in his eyes. I silently wished a period on him, so he too could experience the joys of bloodshed in a nappy in the middle of a sweltering car park.
It’s a good thing they do actually sell tampons elsewhere in this city. I’ll have to stock up. Imagine if I had to get Mum to ship them in every month from the UK. I’ve heard not to get necessities shipped over here, actually. Sometimes packages arrive missing tampons, decent bras and sexy underwear … and yes, these are necessities to some people. Women at the sorting office keep a beady eye out for such items and take them for themselves. It’s the only way they can get them sometimes.
Come to think of it, there was a girl in the bar the other night who knows another girl, who knows a girl, who knows someone at work (I’m starting to think it was her) who was stopped at Dubai customs and made to remove a giant dildo from her suitcase. Apparently she was travelling alone, which I guess means she was spared the embarrassment of having someone who actually knew her discover how she gets her little — or big — pleasures. But on the other hand, she had no one there to witness the look of excitement in the official’s eyes as she bagged it and stashed it out of sight.
Being a non-Muslim woman in Dubai so far isn’t half bad, in the grand scheme of things. But if you’re a kinky dominatrix with a suitcase full of pleasures, or prone to getting your period in an office block full of tampon-bashers, I’m guessing you’re going to have a few off days.
