by Becky Wicks
At work, we’re not allowed to eat or drink al desko (the act of dining at your desk — very common in these parts). Thanks to Heidi for that one. Consequently, the morgue is even quieter than usual today. I think the hunger is setting in. People haven’t eaten all day, me included. I’ve decided to join in the fasting in an attempt to better understand the culture I’m now absorbing on a day-to-day basis. Maybe if I can feel a little of what these people are feeling, I might become a nicer person. And at the end of it, we can sacrifice a lamb together.
This is the part that intrigues me. M&M tells me that at the end of the holy month, most Muslims drive to the sheep sale somewhere in the desert, queue about four hours for the finest they can afford, then bung the bleating beauty in the back of their car. Later, they drive to the abattoir and queue for another few hours to have it slaughtered. The head goes to the lucky man who’s just lobbed it off; the rest they take home to cook or donate to poor people.
Of course, some modern families now get the butcher to do all this for them, as it’s far less hassle. But I prefer the romance in making a special desert voyage. It’s nice that such traditions are upheld . and I’m sure that this sacrifice is appreciated. I know that if I had to drive round in a Porsche that stank of sheep shit I’d certainly expect some element of thanks.
Today I arrived at work and discovered an apple I took from the Ritz was still on my desk. Because it stood as a fruit of M&M’s affections and a symbol of our dalliance in Doha, I refrained from eating it. Now, of course, it’s a political testimony of my morals. Now I don’t know if the apple that should have been consumed already is offending anybody. I sent the fruit-giver an email, for I was confused.
By having it sitting here — shiny, new and incredibly, temptingly edible — it might be changing the course of somebody’s spiritual destiny. But if I move it, surely everyone will know I’ve been thinking too much about it, and they’ll wonder where it’s gone and whether I’ve eaten it, which might also cause offence. If I remove it from sight and put it in my drawer, I might forget about it, and then the rotting stench will most definitely offend somebody. It’s a lose–lose situation. I should have just eaten it yesterday. I just didn’t think it through.
The wise M&M replied that I could solve the situation by putting it into my bag and giving it to a poor person/construction worker on the way home. By doing this I would have remedied the issue of having it sitting here looking juicy all day, plus I would have helped the needy. And this would score some major points with the man upstairs.
Either that, he said, or I could stand up in the office, shout: ‘IT’S ONLY AN APPLE — I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!’ and fling it across the room.
14/09
Back to life, back to reality …
This weekend, Stacey and I are moving from the Iranian’s landing and out into the real world. We’ve found a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment in Garhoud, near the Irish Village of HopFest fame. And better still, it’s also just a hop, skip and a jump to my workplace — yay! Another friend of the Private Banker hooked us up with it, and the landlord is a smiley, round-faced Canadian who most definitely is not an inventor. Plus, the rent is semi decent at 4,000 dirhams each for six months and, unlike many places we’ve seen, it’s furnished.
I’ve decided to pay a little more than Stacey to compensate for her having to take cabs to work, and plus my room has the en suite. It also boasts the biggest, most comfortable-looking king-sized bed I’ve ever seen — one that most definitely is not made of concrete. I am buying a duvet as soon as we move in, and throwing the Twister towel in the dumpster. I no longer view it as a towel. It’s changed.
I feel we deserve this glorious destiny. Our new abode proffers no eerie paintings of twins on windy moors, no weary horses on conveyor belts, or even strange, tent-like houses billowing like flags on the land next door. By contrast, it whispers sweet nothings of evenings spent drinking red wine on the balcony, overlooking the drunks outside the Irish Village. It sings of sipping champagne in a rooftop Jacuzzi, and hums a happy harmony of built-in wardrobes, our own cleaner who won’t shag anyone in the laundry room and a flat-screen TV with more to offer than subscription porn. It’s going to be blissful.
The rooftop is amazing, too. Stacey reckons it looks like a hotel deck. The sun lounges are padded and plentiful. There are even tables with umbrellas around what I’m sure is an Olympic-sized pool. I’m already planning the party to end all parties up there — imagine sipping bubbles in the Jacuzzi as the DJ spins a happy, happy summer song and everyone admires my new champagne flutes from IKEA. Luxury or what?
The Iranian was understandably sad that we felt the need to move out. Thankfully he hasn’t tried to give us any pictures as parting gifts, but he did say we’d be sorry one day to have missed out on the chance to take the fleet-horse to America.
I think we’ll live with it.
17/09
Sin for your supper …
I’m trying really hard this Ramadan. I did sin on Friday, unfortunately, because I thought about sex three times and I ate a salmon sandwich. But I didn’t really enjoy it because Stacey was being holy. She sat opposite, watching me, not a morsel entering her mouth. That night I had about four Coronas at Barasti Bar, but redeemed myself by thinking about how poor people couldn’t drink them. And I made up for it all by not eating at all on Saturday and buying some really pretty new shoes instead. However, I did get stuck in a revolving door. I also fell down the steps in the cinema. Being hungry makes you clumsy.
I’m fully aware I should embrace every inch of this cultural learning curve and bask in a month without sin, without greed, without stress and strife, and I can do it, you know. I can. OK, I’ve failed so far … but I can change, I can. There are so many good things in this world, so many fabulous feelings to cling to, really. I’m floating. I’m riding on a cloud, singing songs about silver linings, dancing with Care Bears and sliding down rainbows. Look at me, I’m feeling it, I’m winning!
But then . HSBC come along; a bank staffed purely by genteel, semi-English speaking Arab ladies:
Me: ‘So your bank has screwed up my cheque book request. Apparently I need to make another one in person because they can’t seem to do it on the phone.’
Bank lady: ‘You can do it on the phone.’
Me: ‘I already did it on the phone. They messed it up. They told me to come in here and order another one in person, so I can sign a form.’
Bank lady: ‘You can do it on the phone.’
Me: ‘No I can’t . they told me to come in here and order one in person, so I can sign a form.’
Bank lady: ‘No problem, you can order one in person if you fill out this form.’
Me: ‘OK, I still need my cash to give my new landlord. He’s waiting for it. Can I withdraw it now?’
Bank lady: ‘No, we are not teller. You can go to other branch and take it out.’
Me: ‘Where’s that?’
Bank lady: ‘Bur Dubai, about twenty minutes in taxi.’
Me: ‘Right. When do they shut?’
Bank lady: ‘In ten minutes.’
Me: ‘Right. So I can’t get my cash, even though it’s there in my account. I’m right here in the bank, you messed up my cheque book request and I can’t travel at the speed of light?’
Bank lady: ‘No.’
Me: ‘Right.’
Bank lady: ‘Can you get friend to lend you some money?’
Me: ‘I have the money, it’s there in my account. I’m right here in the bank. You messed up my cheque book request.’
Bank lady: ‘Sorry about that.’
Me: ‘And you want my friend to lend me some money?’
Bank lady: ‘That would be only viable option right now, yes. You will have your cheque book in four to five working days.’ Me: ‘You’re my bank!’
Bank lady: ‘You will have your cheque book in four to five working days.’
Me: ‘I have no money!’
Bank lady: ‘You will
have your cheque book in four to five working days.’
Me: ‘Can you not make an exception, make a few calls?’
Bank lady: ‘You will have your cheque book in four to five working days.’
Keeping calm in Dubai on an empty stomach is not a skill that’s proving easy to learn. Seriously. It’s enough to drive anyone to the nearest drive-thru.
03/10
The word on the street is CENSORED …
For the past few weeks, that word has been my life. Aside from my newfound friendship with Ewan, who luckily also lives in our new building just a skip away from work, my job is becoming increasingly difficult. Not only am I still stuck in the morgue with my friends unable to visit me, but Stanley doesn’t seem to understand that in order to run a celebrity and lifestyle site, one must actually have a lifestyle.
The other day, he sauntered over in another ill-fitting suit, with sleeves far too long for his short arms, and tried to tell me I shouldn’t be going out to meet people. I informed him of his previous words, which were: ‘Go out there and meet as many people as possible!’
He has since changed his mind, however, and says I must be desk-bound, and if I want to engage the nation with new and exciting things happening in Dubai I must wait for press releases and rewrite them. I think he’s jealous I got an invite to the Ritz and he didn’t, quite frankly.
Anyway, these press releases are, of course, the same badly written press releases doing the rounds and giving every single publication here exactly the same news. Hardly the makings of a new, hit, ahead-of-the-game website. And of course, this now means I’m just going to have to call in sick whenever I want to do something, which is annoying.
Another issue that’s starting to bug me is that I can’t help thinking this would all be slightly more fun if I didn’t have to censor myself. There are things I can’t say here; things I would be fired for, deported over, even. And while I understand and respect the reasons, all these rules would be far easier to abide by if I’d been hired to work on, say, Gardening Weekly. Well, imagine writing about the whores of Hollywood all day when you can’t mention the following:
Whores
Sex
Drugs — no names allowed, i.e. cocaine/weed/dope/blow etc.
Nudity
Sex
Booze
Swear words
Adultery
Sex before marriage, or any sex for that matter
Religion
Sex
Basically, anything that makes writing about celebrities vaguely interesting is a big, fat no-no. I have to just ignore all the vicious slander, the seeping poison going round my brain, rolling off my tongue and through my fingers . and press delete.
Let’s take a timeless Britney saga as an example of such restraint.
UK version:
Tears for Spears …
Has-been Britney’s spent the morning bawling after thicker-than-shit cling-on Fed-Ex gained custody of her kids — a ‘win’ he is probably going to regret once he realises it’ll only put him back in the public eye long enough to start the sentence: ‘My next album is going to be released …’ before little Sean Preston shoots a water pistol in his face and demands he gets taken to Disney World. What a cock — and so perfectly matched to a cock-up like Spears. Their separation is the saddest thing since the Vick-Stick stuck by Beckham after he shot his balls elsewhere. Some people will do anything to stay famous.
UAE version:
Tears for Spears …
Poor popstrel Britney spent the morning sobbing after losing her kids to Kevin Federline in a custody battle that shocked the nation. Dubai sends you hugs, Britney, and thanks for all your albums. We hope you bring your tour over here when the biggest arena in the world opens (sponsored by Sheikh Iowneverything).
Still, I guess it’s all a nice distraction from the bombs/disease/RAGE/anger/fury/hatred/religious dispute/suffering of the real world. It’s still mindless fluff, and it’s still entertaining.
However, perhaps I have sold my soul, slightly. Perhaps I should be writing about the bombs/disease/RAGE/anger/fury/hatred/religious dispute/suffering of the real world, knowing that my carefully crafted words of wisdom, shot straight to the heart of the public, just might change something bigger for the better.
But if I did that I wouldn’t get any free spa treatments. And that would be shit.
17/10
Parent planning …
The parental units came to visit me last week. I was really looking forward to it, not least because Dubai likes families. Dubai doesn’t like single people much, even though we’re not really allowed to have boyfriends, only husbands, so how we’re supposed to become a family in the first place is quite puzzling. But I assume at times that perhaps you’re meant to make one and then move here …
I digress. Dubai is very good for family-type things — so say all the billboards. Granted, half of them haven’t been built yet, but my mum still seemed pretty excited when I told her that should she have chosen to visit me in seven years, we could have all gone to Jurassic Park.
The things that lie in wait for us are indeed astounding. They’re even building a twisty tower with different levels, each of which will permanently rotate towards the sunlight. I know it’s planned as a residential building, but in 2030-something it will be an incredible tourist attraction, which will undoubtedly see awestruck visitors like my mum sitting opposite it for hours, with a packed lunch and a pair of binoculars, watching it turn.
Dubailand is sounding pretty awesome, too. This is set to be a gigantic theme park, twice the size of Florida’s Disney World! And they’re building a Great Dubai Wheel, one of the biggest in the world apparently — even bigger than the London Eye. From the top we’ll be able to view distances of up to 50 kilometres, so everyone will get a glimpse of . well, more sand dunes, probably. The air-conditioned beach is what really intrigues me, though. Imagine that! I’m not sure where it’s going to be exactly, but we’re promised cooling pipes underneath the sand that will keep our tootsies nice and cool, in spite of the sizzling sun.
Mum said she wouldn’t have wanted to visit this, even if it had been finished. She said it would have been a little weird, as the whole point of a beach, surely, is to experience heat as Mother Nature intended, appreciated and offset by a cool ocean breeze. I think she’s just too British for her own good.
Prior to Mum and Dad’s arrival, I put together an interesting ‘adult’ agenda for their well-deserved holiday. Of course, they stayed with me in my lovely en suite bedroom and, of course, I took the sofa, having grown accustomed to uncomfortable sleeping quarters anyway. But I wanted to ensure that as well as having a lovely time, they also got to experience the real Dubai. Here’s what I presented them with via email:
Thursday night:
Straight off the plane and back to my flat, where we’ll head upstairs to the sauna. You shall endure this for twenty minutes, without taking off your clothes, showering or putting your hand luggage down. This will ensure you fully understand the temperatures your lovely daughter had to endure upon her arrival in June. Cultural experiences are vital when exploring foreign shores.
Friday morning:
Up at the crack of noon and on to the poshest hotel for a twelve-hour all-inclusive brunch with all my friends. Prior to this there will be no breakfast, as it’s vital to start drinking on a totally empty stomach. This ensures maximum drunkenness and the appreciation of everyone around the table. Each must concoct your own despicable mix of every food available, although it will be hard to beat your lovely daughter’s winning combo of a marshmallow kebab, covered in soy and jellybeans with a side order of mashed potato. Mum will re-create baby photos as I fall off my chair, burp and puke a little on her holiday frock.
Friday night:
Off to Barasti for a live DJ and lots and lots of boozed-up Brits spouting things about rugby.
Saturday morning:
Recovery on the beach.
Saturday night:
Repeat Friday.
I was, of course, making a joke to shock them, but as I was constructing this joke I was marginally concerned that on this particular visit, seeing the real Dubai might have meant the couple who spawned me would see my true colours. And they might not have liked them.
When I lived in New York a few years ago and they came to visit, it was fairly easy to convince them that my lifestyle consisted of theatrical outings on Broadway and the odd meal in a lovely checked-tablecloth restaurant in the East Village. They needn’t have had an inkling as to the debauchery that really commenced after dark. In fact, prior to reading this, they probably never had a clue about the pot-cookie bus incident, or the fire engine photo shoot, or the time I stayed out the entire night in a bar in Alphabet City, and walked straight to work again the next morning, reeking of cheap gin.
Here, however, after careful pondering of Dubai’s infamous family-friendly concept, short of dropping them in a mall or depositing them outside the museum or souks — which are lovely but generally take about three hours to check off the list — I discovered that there’s really not that much to do … yet. We lounge, drink, get fat, shop, eat some more and then start all over again. I can’t hide it. That’s just the way it is.
