Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  Poor Stacey wasn’t looking forward to heading back to work as it was, especially after her Christmas break in the UK. And now she and Heidi are both pretty much stuck in their new office somewhere in the sludgy pond that used to be the building site/business district, Al Quoz. Last night, she saw people driving past in 4x4s, offering to help others stuck in smaller cars. Waiting in an impossible jam, she even saw some people get out of the van in front, wade to the shop nearby to get snacks, and then climb back in. And when other cars rushed past as fast as they could move, their own vehicle rocked about like a boat in the surf. Scary stuff.

  I haven’t really been affected because I can walk to work, so Stacey said it might be beneficial if I take a couple of Li-Los and the ‘beer chair’ we reserve for the swimming pool outside onto the street, where I might be able to cash in by offering life rafts. It’s now painfully apparent that while the new buildings in Dubai are all very nice, a proper drainage system wasn’t something that was really ever considered necessary.

  I only hope my building is waterproof on the inside. I’ve heard that the sixteenth floor of a new tower block down on the waterfront (part of the Jumeirah Beach Residence) has started to leak. Not the first, or second, or even the fortieth. Just the sixteenth, which doesn’t exactly speak volumes as to the quality of the building. So far, my apartment seems fine, but I’ve picked up all my shoes from the floor, just in case.

  A couple of days ago, the heavens opening all of a sudden in the desert would have seemed a beautifully romantic metaphor for the state of my life since M&M left me. But I’m starting to see that every cloud has a silver lining. In this case, I’ve just heard the news that very soon High School Musical is going to be performed by the local drama group. I’m thrilled. A musical of Hollywood proportions, here in Dubai, with spoilt local expat kids all paying for a part in the line-up. This has made my day. Maybe even my week! Theatre, oh how I miss you. Let’s pray the rain clears up so they don’t all drown on their way to rehearsals.

  10/01

  What would you do with an island?

  Two things have got me thinking today. The first is my encounter with The Irishman in a bar last night. I keep replaying it in my head. I haven’t seen him since we parted in Spain after our conference last summer (the one that left me well and truly dazzled) and then, all of a sudden, he’s grinning at me from a bar stool in Dubai, like a cheeky little leprechaun on a mushroom. It was surreal. It did funny things to my heart.

  I knew he was coming, of course — he’s starting his new job next week. But to bump into him like that kind of threw me and proved once and for all just how small Dubai is! We ended up drinking till the early hours with a host of people I’d never met before, which is why, in my hung-over state, I find myself dwelling on the second thing. Another press release. This one is to enlighten me as to yet another island being dredged from the sea. The world’s first island devoted entirely to fashion, no less.

  Apparently, the multimillion dollar Isla Moda, due to be started later this year, will combine a fashion resort, a multitude of themed residential villas, haute couture boutiques and luxury hospitality facilities. Fashion superman Karl Lagerfeld has signed a deal to design it, so who knows what it might entail, but I know a hundred ladies who can hardly wait to move to their lipstick-shaped desks, in their shoe-shaped offices (Jimmy Choo’s, of course), in their towering mascara-wand-inspired architectural triumphs, into their own little corner of Wardrobe Lane. (I made that bit up, but it wouldn’t surprise me.) Imaginations are going crazy.

  As it stands, apparently, high-profile fashion designers from every continent (maybe not Antarctica) are getting involved by all designing different parts of the island.

  The CEO of Dubai Holding believes: ‘Isla Moda will cement Dubai’s position as one of the top fashion and lifestyle destinations in the world.’ How exciting! We already know that Brad and Ange have bought a slice of Nakheel’s amazingly ridiculous project, The World. Justin Timberlake is allegedly not far away (in a secret location between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, so they say) but now this … who’s next? Kate Moss? Cindy Crawford? Cheryl Cole? It’s like dangling a carrot in front of a thousand walking clothes horses. And we all know they can afford to sail there on their private yachts.

  Isla Moda is set to play host to all sorts of exclusive international events, so says my press release, all of which will feature high-profile designers in the presence of the fashion world’s top players. Fashion shows and limited-edition product launches will also be hosted on the island, once it’s finished. Assumedly, those who aren’t already loaded won’t get to see these shows nor buy the clothes and accessories because not everyone’s got a boat to get there. I suppose paddling up in a kayak might suffice, but it wouldn’t be ideal for bringing all those shoes back in afterwards, really. I wonder if this is another thing they haven’t thought through …

  Still, even if the houses don’t look like wardrobes and the clubs aren’t shaped like Burberry bags . even if the bars don’t drape us in Christian Dior and the cars aren’t covered in diamonds as one would expect, I’m still going to be monitoring this development with intrigue through the lenses of my new designer Prada shades, darling. They’re the most expensive accessory I’ve ever bought and let me tell you, whenever I wear them, my whole face is a fashion island in a sea of absolute envy.

  14/01

  Bush on the beat …

  As an icky, uncontrollable combo of rain and political misery washes down upon us, everyone will be confined to their homes for the day tomorrow. They just declared it a public holiday in light of George W. Bush’s arrival. Of course, it’s a widely accepted fact that he’s a numpter and I think everyone wants a stern word. London and New York might section off a street or two, Sydney might offer up a private boat, Tokyo might even give him a few extra security guards with skills in martial arts should he show up on a whirlwind tour . but Dubai is a city that takes no chances. So they’ve shut us all down.

  How embarrassing.

  Pretty much every road in the entire city is closing tomorrow to allow His Tex-ellency to travel in peace (even though he’ll probably use a helicopter). Even the schools are locking the doors, but to be honest they had no choice. We don’t even have the Metro here yet — if we can’t travel by car, the only option is to fly or walk.

  It’s all go over here at the moment, though — the ‘news room’ is in a panic because no one really knows what’s going on, or why, and the Gulf News is out-scooping Arabian Business magazine with what are probably just rumours. Stanley’s going nuts, running around with his big suit all in a flap. Controversial!

  ‘Democracy is the only form of government that brings peace and stability and gives individuals the dignity they deserve,’ Bush drawled this morning, as a perfectly dignified emirate was forced into hibernation, thanks to his questionable leadership skills.

  You’ve got to wonder how they told him, though. Did Sheikh Mo take him aside as he stepped off the plane with a little whisper? Something like: ‘Sorry, George, don’t take it personally … thanks for coming and everything, but . well, we actually think you might cause some trouble, so we’ve evacuated the entire city. Care for a doughnut?’

  Poor guy — imagine if that was you. Imagine if you were so shite at your job that an entire emirate was shitting bricks over your arrival. I assume his arse is being well and truly kissed, and he might well have some interesting things to say to add to his collection, but still — they know, he knows, we all know why they’re keeping us all locked in, out of harm’s way.

  Personally I don’t mind in the slightest. I’ve still got Heroes: Season 2 to finish, and a very nice duvet under which to snuggle. Plus, The Irishman, Stacey and I have decided to go for food and drinks once we’re allowed back out again. And as his new place isn’t too far away by cab we thought it would be appropriate to his arrival to go down to the Irish Village.

  As this city gets more powerful, I can’t help but wonder how they’ll deal
with things like this in the future. It might be able to build the world’s tallest building, but it’s looking like one of the world’s most ignorant men can still knock down an emirate.

  27/01

  The cleaning man who never was …

  Our cleaner hasn’t been round for almost three weeks now. He usually comes by every Thursday, but since the Great Floods we haven’t heard a peep. Of course, we’re hoping he hasn’t been washed away, but more pressing on our selfish Western minds is the fact that our kitchen hasn’t been cleaned for eighteen days and we’re running out of plates.

  It really is quite difficult at the moment, going home to a dirty apartment after such a hard day in the office, keeping the public informed of Jordan’s latest breakdown and constantly correcting myself as to how many wax-based memorials are currently burning outside Heath Ledger’s house. It’s even worse for Stacey, when she has to go straight out to dinner in a five-star hotel or rush off to a party. The last thing we want to do is fold our clothes or take a hoover to our bathroom mats.

  My mat, consequently, is the worst thing of all at the moment. Two Fridays ago I got quite hammered after an all-day cocktail session and bought myself the usual 3 am pie from 24/7 round the corner. Somehow, between finishing the pie and falling into bed, I managed to coat the bathroom rug in a fine layer of flaky pastry. Worryingly, the majority of flakes are at the top end, adjacent to the toilet. Now, I’d hate for anyone to judge me, or make any lewd, loo-based, meat-chewing assumptions, but every day since then I’ve been forced to re-trace those forgotten steps, drawing a frustrating blank every time. And it’s not very nice.

  Had the cleaner been round and sucked up my sins with the hoover, I’d have long since regained my dignity and probably had a few more late-night pies. But as it is, he’s ruined it for me. And my rug looks fucking terrible.

  Also annoying are the hairballs that have started floating down the corridor, between our bedrooms and the lounge. I’m not sure which are Stacey’s and which are mine, but each delicate tumbleweed is a tragic reminder of how bad things could get if he doesn’t come back at all. What if they all join up together in the corner of the living room and block the telly? What if one huge hairball collects beside the fridge and we accidentally cook it up with our dinner and choke, and wind up in hospital, and our parents have to fly over and identify our remains after the autopsies reveal nothing but intestines filled with our own matted hair?

  Quite sadly, we don’t have the cleaner’s phone number. He was but a weekly blessing arranged for us by the previous tenant — a fairy in flip-flops with an enviable flair for cushion arrangements. We can’t get in touch because although he’s been cleaning apartments in our building for a while, nobody seems to know who he is or, indeed, where he comes from. The doorman did say he ‘thought’ he saw him after the floods, but he hasn’t been back to our flat. Perhaps we offended him somehow, but we always tipped him extra. Perhaps we were just too disgusting for him, with our hairballs and sandy high heels and Marmite-covered plates. Perhaps he never existed at all and we’ve always been a pair of filth-wizards, just in denial. Perhaps we’ll never know.

  The doorman said he would arrange a new cleaner for us this morning, which took a load off our minds. Tension’s been mounting and cutlery’s running low. Neither of us can remember how to use a broom and we can’t go out onto the balcony to fetch the mop because the floor is so disgusting out there now that our feet would turn black in the process.

  I’m sure the new guy will do a marvellous job and we can resume our hard-earned existence in an equally pristine manner. But we’ll always wonder what became of the cleaning man who never was.

  09/02

  An Indian adventure …

  Ewan and I, as well as a couple of girls from work, booked a trip from Dubai to Jaipur on the cheap-as-chips airline, Air Arabia. It’s a bit like EasyJet, only swap the football hooligans for men in dishdasha. I didn’t actually have a clue what was in Jaipur, aside from Indians, but it was bound to be an adventure no matter what, because we also planned to take the relatively short train journey from there to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. I’ve always wanted to see the Taj Mahal!

  The Irishman was jealous when I told him where we were going. In a way, I sort of wish he could have come, but I didn’t think it’d be quite right to invite him — I’ve been replying to messages from M&M again lately and his jealous streak just wouldn’t have processed that information very well.

  I know M&M dumped me in order to do the right thing, but it’s obvious from his ongoing banter that he still wants to be involved. It’s all a bit confusing … but The Irishman hasn’t really shown any signs of wanting to pick up where we left off in Spain, so it’s not like I’ve got a distraction. And God knows I need a distraction, in the morgue that is my office. Instant messenger plus boredom equals bad behaviour. I even went so far as going home one night and posing for some rather kinky photos in the lingerie M&M got me for my birthday. I knew as I added some essential photoshopping to the finished snaps that what I was doing was totally irresponsible, but it made me feel sexy, so I hit send anyway and waited smugly for his response. I’ll show you who you shouldn’t have dumped!

  Anyway, I think the trip to Jaipur came just at the right time …when I really needed to take a step back. And now, looking at all my photos, it looks like we had a real adventure.

  Actually, it’s funny, but the fear I felt while gripping Ewan’s arm as we raced past bicycles and herds of equally bewildered-looking animals is now almost completely overridden by awe — was I really there among such insane chaos? Me? Me, who now has manicures and pedicures and a cleaner (well, used to have a cleaner)? Was I just in a poverty-stricken city, holding my nose while snapping photos of dying dogs and grown men pissing in the middle of roundabouts with absolutely no shame whatsoever? I can hardly believe it.

  To our Dubai-trained eyes, Jaipur was a smelly, filthy, rude city, whose train station doubles as a homeless shelter. Most of its people look diseased. With no road system to speak of, they drive without lights at night. They cycle on ancient bikes with barrels of hay and ladders strapped to the back, and they weave through traffic on motorbikes without a thought to maybe check their non-existent mirrors! Beggars approach your tuk-tuk when you stop and children play in pools of filthy water and walk barefoot where goats and cows crap freely. Pigs snuffle by the road in piles of rotting market leftovers. Wedding processions add an ill-fitting soundtrack to passing scenes of misery, and chatting women walk their toddlers in the middle of busy roads, absolutely oblivious to the dangers until they’re forced to run and dodge a collision.

  Most of the people we encountered viewed tourists as walking ATMs. We were ridiculed by passing strangers, scammed into paying more than necessary for meals in local restaurants and denied our trip to the Taj Mahal. Yup, we didn’t make it there after all, even though it was only four and a half hours by train. We were involved in a bit of a scam — a greedy conductor tried to charge us 5,000 rupees for a journey that should have cost 250. When we refused to line his pocket he kicked us off the train in the middle of nowhere. Ewan was fuming. We all were. We’re used to being rallied about at the whims of Dubai’s crazy cab drivers, this way and the other without warning, but we never, ever get kicked out in the middle of nowhere. Don’t they know who we are?

  However, all that said, Jaipur had a perfect Kodak moment around every corner, even though it’s swamped in agonising poverty. Embroidered saris all the colours of the rainbow blurred into roadside stalls of sparkling fresh fruit and vegetables. The inquisitive eyes of random animals hovered over wrinkled men making shoes, right next to piles of drying cowpats. After moaning at being charged ten times more than the locals to explore some of the forts we climbed, I must say they look even more impressive in the photos than they did at the time, set against the hazy outline of rolling hills. And the smiles of local children seem far brighter and far more innocent than our cynicism would allow them to be when we we
re actually there. I guess we were terrified of being out of our comfort zone, but that seems pretty stupid, now we’re back in it.

  A total contrast to Jaipur was Samode, our next stop and a 40-kilometre drive away in a luxurious Toyota! There we found the most beautiful garden imaginable — like something from a storybook. All around us, it was as though an apology was being offered for all we’d encountered so far — roses bloomed, chipmunks danced and ate from our hands, emerald parrots squawked. It was also a world away from Dubai, but a much-needed reminder of Mother Nature’s existence. I’d actually forgotten how nice ancient trees are, how gorgeous grass feels when it’s not thick and crunchy under a fierce desert sun.

  Here, the birds sang without the fight to be heard over cranes and diggers. The dinners were served around a campfire on individual tables decorated with candles, and dare I say it, there were no ice sculptures necessary to make our lunchtime buffet on the lawn any more beautiful or decadent. The manager even gave us our room for an extra eleven hours free of charge, because we couldn’t bear to go back to the city any sooner than we had to after check-out time. Such a nice man, with his rainbow-coloured turban and modern mobile phone. He liked us because we tipped everyone lots. We were just so grateful not to be in Jaipur.

  I had another message from M&M while I was there, too, saying he wants to meet me when he’s back from his latest business trip. The sexy snaps did the trick apparently (must have been the photoshopping on my thighs). Maybe because the garden was working a little bit of magic on me, I said OK. And when the nagging feeling of doubt kicked in I pushed it aside and concentrated on the smell of the flowers, the smog-free blue of the sky.