by Becky Wicks
Renting and ranting …
Last night I went for dinner at Sash’s friend’s apartment. I knew it would make me jealous, seeing that Ewan and I could never afford to live in such a glamorous place, but I was intrigued. The apartment’s in one of the original Emaar towers (another big developer in the UAE) in the Marina, and has been filled to the max with art and trinkets and the kind of expensive furniture people like me can only dream about.
I absolutely long for a home that’s filled with the essence of me and not cheap tat from a catalogue shop. I’m sure we all do. But I guess this generation rarely has it because we all move around so much these days. Personally, I haven’t been in one place for more than two years since I was eighteen. And before that, of course, I was living at home with Mum and Dad, getting my laundry done, getting my plates washed, getting driven around by … er … OK, much like I do here, but you get my point.
Anyway, everyone around me seems to be moving house lately, including Ewan and me. And, of course, if buying a luxury pad isn’t an option, you’re forced to fling yourself full throttle into the rental market. If you’re a citizen of Dubai at the moment, there is little else on everyone’s lips. The competition is fierce. It’s much worse than I remember it being in London. Or New York, for that matter.
With this in mind, I decided to do a little research. If we can really live anywhere these days, how does Dubai compare to other cities? Well, most decent double rooms here now cost between 4,000 and 5,000 dirhams a month. That’s roughly 760 pounds a month at current exchange rates. If I lived in London, judging by a popular rental property website (gumtree.com), I could have my pick of locations for that money right now. And I definitely wouldn’t be slumming it. I could have a room in Greenwich overlooking the Thames, for 523 per month, all-inclusive. For five quid more a month than I’m paying here, I could live five minutes from Marble Arch. When did this unfinished, dusty, Middle Eastern city become as desirable/overpriced (depending on how you look at it) as central London?
If I moved to New York, based on what I’m expected to pay here, I’d have 1,388 dollars to spend on a place per month. Looking at their biggest community website (craigslist.com) I could have a double room, sharing with two other girls on the Upper East Side (East 70s and 2nd Avenue — Carrie Bradshaw-style!) for 1,250 US dollars. If I wanted to ‘slum it’ and live ten minutes away from Manhattan in North Brooklyn, I could live five minutes’ walk from the subway in a double room, in a nice, fully furnished apartment for 800 bucks. I wouldn’t have a swimming pool or gym in London or New York, of course. And I wouldn’t have a maid. But I would be able to cross the street without dodging a bulldozer, wading through sand or hailing a cab that may or may not get me there in one piece.
I’m not entirely sure why this brand-new city of shopping malls and moderate interest from tourists has suddenly grown just as expensive as two of the busiest, most popular city destinations on the planet. But as we dined on barbecued prawns and rocket salad in the luxury of Sash’s friend’s apartment I decided I’d have to lump it. It’s an unfortunate fact, I suppose, that until I feel the need to settle and invest, there’s really no choice but to suck it up and pay the rental costs of living like the modern somewhat spoilt gypsy that I am.
25/03
Home sweet home, number three …
M&M called me the other day. We spoke on the phone and he didn’t sound too hot. In fact, he sounded exhausted and emotionally drained. I think he’s had several earfuls and a whole load of threats from angry family members, but he’s confirmed that they don’t know who I am, so I’m not about to be killed in the night, which is nice. He’s apologised profusely for scaring me, but to be honest, I really was more concerned for him. I remember what The Trader told me ages ago, about the views on infidelity in Muslim culture.
As a result of him getting busted, M&M’s wife has decided to move elsewhere and he’s moved to a new apartment on his own. He snapped it up at lightning speed, with very little hassle. Money helps a lot, I’m guessing.
The apartment Ewan and I just signed up to live in, however, was the biggest and most decent place we could find for the budget we’d set aside. Although, while we may have achieved the quantity part, the quality of our new surroundings leaves a lot to be desired. It was never quite my dream to live on a building site.
Our new two-bedroom apartment sits on a main road, in an area called TECOM, which is still very much under construction. Our living room balcony overlooks a vast expanse of sand, which appears to have a racing track for camels on it. The fact that our block has only been open for a few months, the swimming pool isn’t ready yet, the gym has no equipment in it and the building is completely surrounded by forklift trucks and metal fencing bearing hazard signs for builders, made it a relative bargain.
We’re soon to be residing in the unfinished ugly sister of a neighbourhood called The Greens. No taxis will know how to find us when we call them, and there’s no local shop within walking distance from which to buy our supplies — not that we could walk anyway, because there aren’t any pavements either.
The Irishman finds this all very amusing. We’ve been spending a lot of time around the compound’s swimming pool these past few days and it’s fun having him as a neighbour while I’m staying in Margot’s maid’s room. I kind of forgot I wasn’t supposed to be seeing him — oops!
He’s got it all set up, living here. I tried to find a room in the same compound but they’re few and far between — because it’s so great, no one ever wants to move out.
The good thing about our new place, I suppose, is that it’s closer to M&M’s new apartment. I haven’t seen very much of him since he got back. He’s been sorting out his life, but surprisingly he’s calling me a lot and appears to be even keener on me than ever. I wake up to text messages from him almost every morning, asking how I am before I’ve even opened my eyes. I know it’s him when I hear the beep. I’m not too sure what to make of it all, if I’m honest. The first night I stayed over in his new place, he sort of acted a bit funny, too, like he didn’t really know what to make of the fact that we could spend an entire night together without having to leave Dubai, without him having to run off back to another bed. His reaction freaked me out a bit. I did have quite a scare, imagining an angry Arab was out to kill me, and I feel genuinely terrible for his wife, who now has to deal with moving away, as well as with the fact that her trusted and beloved hubby has been sneaking around behind her back.
I’ve never had to put a face to her name, or hear her voice. I never knew anything about her, which I guess made it easier to forget that what M&M and I were doing was paving the way to another woman’s heartbreak. Not knowing her at all was how I allowed him to charm me, whisk me away and grow increasingly besotted with what he technically shouldn’t have been able to have. But now for some reason I can really picture her clearly. Someone out there, quite justifiably, hates my guts. Someone out there is a wreck, partly because of me. Ugh.
I can hardly put the phone down, though, can I … tell him not to call me because I feel shitty about the whole thing and think we should call it a day. What about him? It sounds a bit like he needs me more than ever. Or maybe he just thinks he does.
Anyway, in other news, the temp job at the media company is going quite well, thus far, in spite of the whole place reeking of organised chaos. I’m getting quite a few nice freebies lined up as a result of editing the health and beauty trade publication. Ewan loves work too — he’s a stylist for two different fashion sections in different mags. He’s running a team and has way more blagging power than he used to have in the old place.
Also quite exciting is that some of us are keen to book a trip to Nepal in the next few months, including The Irishman, Sash and a few others. It’s dirt cheap if we fly from Dubai to Kathmandu. It’ll also give us the chance to spot tigers from the backs of elephants!
I’m not planning to tell M&M just yet that The Irishman is set to come along. It was arranged whi
le he was AWOL, while I needed to make some happy plans, and while I wasn’t really sure if I would ever see him again. He wouldn’t like it very much at all if he knew that The Irishman and I were still talking, let alone arranging to go away together. OK, so we’re not going by ourselves but I just don’t want to upset him. He’s got enough going on, without imagining another betrayal. For now I’m concentrating fully on my move into the new apartment. If it all goes well, Ewan and I might even adopt a kitten. How domestic would that be? Home sweet home number three, with a pet. Maybe we really are moving up in the world.
29/03
It’ll be all-white …
Only in Dubai could the words ‘dental’ and ‘spa’ sing together in glorious harmony. Previous to my teeth-whitening session at Dubai’s Dental Spa the other day, no amount of trickling water over shiny stones or leafy plants in terracotta pots could have persuaded this dentophobe that behind the fancy charade there wasn’t a torturous session just waiting to unfold. But believe it or not, a trip to the dentist can be fun, if you live in Dubai. Revitalising even. In Dubai, if you work for a health and beauty magazine and talk to the right people politely with a red-wine-stained smile, the dentist is your friend.
‘Friends’ is a bit of a buzzword here, actually. As I was lowered in an adjustable chair in my feng-shui-style room, my treatment specialist, Hilary, switched on the plasma TV screen attached to the ceiling and asked if I wanted to watch pretty fish swimming about in oceanic bliss, or ‘… the one where Rachel, Ross and Phoebe get set for a wedding'. Obviously I chose the latter — proving that this show gets through every crack in the system. As I opened wide and rivalled the canned laughter with the obligatory aaah sound, I was left wondering whether any human being on the entire planet will ever live a life free from this bloody American sitcom. I think I may have mentioned how it’s blasted across the nail salon every time I get my acrylics done, too.
My treatment was set to be the ‘plasma power whitening treatment', available for anyone like me who feels a sudden urge to fool the world she hasn’t spent the past ten years drinking cheap merlot and indulging in blue slush puppies at every cinema viewing. I didn’t want to go too white, of course. No one wants a set like Simon Cowell’s. To me, it’s quite off-putting when you can practically see your own reflection in someone’s teeth. With his, you can almost spot the little tooth fairies hard at work, scrubbing them with magic paste during commercial breaks on The X Factor. I wanted something that wasn’t blinding, but not the yellowy beige my destructive lifestyle had turned them into either.
The Dental Spa, like much of Dubai, tries to add a dose of glamour to everyday routine. And had Hilary known the hell I’ve just endured, what with the flat hunt, the job loss, the married-boyfriend bust-up and the departure of Stacey, she’d have no doubt been delighted with her newly appointed role as therapist and dentist all in one. Thankfully, my mouth was at her mercy so I couldn’t fill her in.
As soothing music filled the air and the chair lovingly massaged my back, Hilary set to work on my teeth. Why don’t all dentists’ chairs do this? Of course, I won’t lie. Dentistry is never going to be a truly spa-like procedure. There are lights, loud noises and machines that suck and buzz and hiss. There are pastes and funny tastes and that gentle trickle of drool that always escapes from the corner of your mouth onto the nurse’s glove, making you feel like a helpless baby. Friends helps a bit. Fish take your mind off it all for a while and a chair massage is very nice, but it’s still the dentist, after all, isn’t it? Dubai never fails to confuse me. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore.
When all was said and done and I wiped my face in the mirror to reveal a smile that now lit up the room, I couldn’t help but feel as though a little bit of Dubai magic had just taken place. I even got a kit to take home, so in three to six months I can refresh my pearly whites at no extra cost. How good is that? It doesn’t mean I can go straight back to the coloured goods, though — no red wine, cola or other teeth-staining concoctions are allowed for three days. Jesus, it’s like the detox all over again.
But then, she didn’t say anything about white wine.
01/04
Selfish help …
Sean, Ewan’s boyfriend, has offered to help us look for furniture to fill our new flat on the building site, which is a very nice gesture indeed. It’s quite a big place to fill, actually, and we’re expected to buy absolutely everything for it, except the kitchen appliances — unlike the Iransion and our last luxury abode, this one comes as empty as the expanse of desert that constitutes our new ‘view'.
Our weekend journey took us back to the road where Stacey and I used to work for the publishing company all those months ago; a never-ending strip of furniture stores and car parks featuring tiny shops that don’t sell tampons. As Ewan and I don’t have cars and haven’t driven for years, I thought Sean might have offered to hire a van so we could drive from store to store, collecting bedroom sets and sofas. Ewan predicted that he would almost certainly make this lovely offer, being the caring, considerate boyfriend that he is.
We would have offered to pay for the van, of course, but having Sean’s help would have saved all manner of hassle, flagging cabs that never stop on a main road, juggling essentials like plasma TVs and organising deliveries left, right and centre.
So imagine our surprise when Sean rocked up in his two-seater ‘selfish car', boom box pumping where the back seats should have been, and offered to follow us wherever we might care to go in our cab. We looked at each other in disappointment as he waved cheerily from behind the wheel, fiddling lovingly with the knobs in his sparkling Honda S2000. He was clearly oblivious to the fact that his offer might possibly be seen as slightly pointless, not to mention annoying.
Obviously, Ewan can hardly blame Sean for wanting the sexy sports car with its high-performance, high-winding inline four-cylinder engine, superbly balanced chassis, minimalist cockpit comforts and racetrack-ready suspension … but when it comes to ‘helping’ us move, an engine that loves to rev, an ideal 49/51 weight distribution and a super-slick six-speed gearbox isn’t going to shift a three-piece suite from one end of Dubai to the other. Evidently, Sean was seeing not an opportunity to help his wonderful boyfriend and his flatmate, but the chance to parade his brand-new toy up and down a busy road in broad daylight.
‘He’s just so Dubai these days,’ Ewan whispered in my ear as Sean zealously revved the engine, practically drowning out a nearby digger. I can see what he means.
Reluctantly, we rang for cab number one and spent the majority of the day jumping out of cars, traipsing round furniture stores and arranging various deliveries that might or might not be delivered, judging by previous customer-service experiences in this city. Fair enough, Sean was quite helpful whenever he managed to find a parking space and join us in our shopping ventures. But in between stores, Ewan and I stood wiping our sweaty foreheads in frustration by the roadside, trying to hail the next cab as Sean raced merrily round the block in his man-mobile, calling at sporadic intervals to see if we had caught a ride yet.
Later that night, as we sat on the floor in our dusty, empty flat, Sean leaned back against the wall where the sofa should have been and took a swig from his beer bottle. ‘Maybe I can help you get your new kitten,’ he offered, having heard about our grand new plan to become pet owners. Ewan scowled and I flashed my new, shiny white smile in Sean’s direction. ‘Let’s see how it goes, shall we,’ I told him, making a mental note to ask M&M instead. M&M might have a selfish car too, but at least he knows how to use it properly.
04/04
Return of the Iranian inventor …
It seems like ages ago that Stacey and I moved into the Iransion. New to Dubai we really didn’t have a clue how to handle the mad inventor with his weird horse-powered contraption on the driveway, or what to do when he tried to convince us to help him take his invention to America, where he’d become a megastar ecowarrior.
Of course, we just wanted to
go out and get pissed. He was a freak — a man with a twisted vision; one who would probably spend all eternity in his villa in Jumeirah inventing things, making art and shagging the maid.
Well, who’d have thought it? The Iranian’s gone and done it. He’s now a frickin’ media star! He called me up, wanting me to rewrite his website. Being the picky fellow he is, he published only elements of what I wrote, choosing to believe that his basic
English could fill in the gaps. The result is somewhat interesting. I’m not so sure we work together. We have different … styles. Still, the press caught on. The fleet-horse is everywhere. Everyone wants a slice of it … well, everyone in Dubai, at least.
I met him yesterday on the street outside the office. He pulled up in a flashy red car and crossed the road, grinning from behind mammoth designer shades with a smile almost as shiny as mine. He slipped me some cash for my help and told me I must have been regretting my decision not to join him in his venture all those months ago. He then told me, sorry, he had to run because he was late for another newspaper interview.
He’s really changed.
Today the local rag 7Days printed the interview, only quite unfortunately it doesn’t really quote him at all. Instead, it relates the opinion of a vet, who deems his horse-powered contraption ‘sick'. I just received a text from the inventor. He asked me:
Hi Backy (yes Backy, not Becky), Pls read the page 2 of 7days
and kindly do let me know the article is against me or not.
Regards.
I am now, apparently, his translator.
I didn’t really know what to say. I kind of felt sorry for him. The dude has been asked to exhibit his invention in America, where they actually do think it’s kind of cool — perhaps even useful. Maybe he wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe he was just in the wrong place. Maybe America, the land of opportunity, with all its wacky, freaky people clinging to their dreams, will welcome him with open arms. Maybe he can find some new, impressionable yet slightly less cynical ladies to live on his mansion landing. Maybe he and the maid will find success and happiness across the pond, inventing more … er … inventions and living happily ever after in a house filled with real Iranian children. And horses. Who am I to destroy his dream?
