by Becky Wicks
Social networking …
I appear to have fallen out with M&M again. He sounded rather upset when he called — someone sent him a photo I posted on Facebook of The Irishman holding a falafel. It’s clear I took the photo, and only a few days ago too, which is why he’s mad. He sounded positively distraught, actually. Of course, I’m aware of how stupid this sounds, but you have no idea how much he despises him, simply because we once shared that damn Spanish snog.
It was all quite innocent really. Honestly. Inspired by Yemen, The Irishman and I went down to Dubai Creek with our cameras to take some photos. In the late afternoon, the golden light on the dhows and around the dusty old souks is really pretty and The Irishman has recently bought himself a super-snazzy new Nikon camera, which is even better than mine.
We were experimenting with shutter speeds, ISO, all the camera settings that we thought would sound impressive as we walked along the creek, trying to outdo each other with our shots. It was an awesome afternoon. We stopped for a falafel and a drink from a coconut shell at a stall near the water, and took some silly photos of each other. I loaded them up on Facebook when I got back, secretly hoping I’d snapped some better shots than him. I didn’t even think it might have been a bad idea. It didn’t even cross my mind that M&M might care to look, let alone be affected. The call came shortly after. He ranted and he raved, he almost cried. What was I doing out with The Irishman?
I slammed the phone down on him, so repulsed by his actions and too angry at his insulting questions to even bother explaining. I’m starting to realise M&M never sees anything the way it really is when it comes to my male friends. With The Irishman, he seems to see what he thinks is happening, and then convinces himself I’m out to destroy him or something! You know, I think his separation has made him even more possessive than he was before. I’m actually getting sick of it. We just had a fabulous time in Yemen, too … I don’t think I’ve ever found a trait so unattractive in a man.
Of course, it’s embarrassing to have to tell The Irishman that I’m not supposed to see him. He thinks M&M’s an idiot. He thinks I’m out of my depth and that things are just going to get messier. I feel he might be right, but every time I try to distance myself, it feels like M&M fights even harder for control. And if a creekside photography trip is enough to tip him over the edge, what would he think if he knew we had plans for Nepal? Ugh.
03/07
A beachfront balls-up …
Last night, in order to escape Gizmo’s wailing and Ewan’s ensuing fury over his shitty job, I went out with M&M to ‘talk'. We headed to JBR Walk — Jumeirah Beach Residence — a long stretch of dining establishments, mostly fast-food joints, along the beach near Dubai Marina. This strip of outdoor fun is fast becoming the place to be at the newer end of town and forms the base of a large row of ugly, beige-coloured residential towers that appear to have been built in a day.
Many apartments in these blocks have amazing ocean views. Back before they were built, residents were lured into buying off the plan, thanks to promises of luxury pads, a private, exclusive beach club and beach park, and free access to several gyms. More than a year down the line there are still no gyms, the beach club isn’t open yet and the private beach park is a free-for-all, accessible to everyone (in spite of residents paying a service charge for the privilege). To top it off, the balconies protruding from most of these apartments have been constructed using so much concrete and cheap dark paint that they block all natural light from the rooms, making each one feel more like a jail cell than a luxury pad. I’ve been to several house parties in the towers. They’re all the same. They all emit the same depressing vibe, no matter what colour the living room’s been painted. And at every party you can guarantee that someone, somewhere, will accidentally pull a door handle off.
There are several swimming pools dotted about the complex, which has thirty-six buildings stretching over 1.7 kilometres. Unfortunately, the towers surrounding these pools loom so high into the sky that their shadows render sunbathing impossible, without picking up your towel every half an hour and relocating to the next patch of light. Sash is a resident and she calls this process the Pool Crawl. She’s constantly moving from one illuminated strip to the next in search of a tan. She’d love to go to the beach of course, but the dead fish keep putting her off. Sash has also spoken of rats scurrying about in the suspended ceiling; no doubt a result of questionable sanitary conditions during the construction process.
Allegedly, a rich local bought a couple of these towers at the start and deliberately kept them vacant, so as to make the most of rising rental costs at the peak of the property boom. However, it’s looking like the cunning plan backfired. More people are moving out than in to JBR as the word ‘recession’ lingers on everyone’s lips. Those who can afford it are now moving into better quality properties, which are now going at a far cheaper rate. The case for living in JBR isn’t much supported by the fact that everything inside it keeps breaking, either. You might be able to build a castle on sand in Dubai, but it doesn’t mean it won’t fall down.
Rather like skateboarders might congregate along London’s South Bank (minus the plastic bottles of cider and homeless people), residents of the complex and Dubai’s local youths gather to eat and puff shisha on the streets of JBR Walk. They stroll along the stretch in awe of imported palm trees, spouting fountains and a view of the manmade palm island in the distance, just a few hops and skips away from the crumbling wreck of an old hotel, currently being bulldozed to the ground in slow motion to make way for something more modern. The whole area, in true Dubai form, is up and coming — and coming down — all at the same time.
The restaurant M&M and I chose to ‘talk’ in last night had us witnessing some of the chaos JBR residents evidently endure on a daily basis — perhaps to a lesser extent and exaggerated by my spoilt Western opinions on how things should be, but infuriating nonetheless. To start with, they brought the wrong order. I know. Terrible. But not just the wrong order, mind — M&M’s spaghetti turned up on the same plate as my grilled salmon! Now, in some places, like Italian restaurants frequented by dogs in Disney movies, diners may eat from the same plate, but one would hope not here, in the real world, if Dubai can be classed as such. And I was still mad at M&M. I didn’t much fancy eating off the same plate. Realising their mistake, they shuffled it off to the kitchen and eventually reappeared with two plates, but my salmon was still missing an essential item.
‘Where is my baked potato?’
‘Sorry, ma’am, we changed menu. The salmon doesn’t come with potato now, just vegetables.’ [Note: The salmon costs a whopping 68 dirhams, by the way.]
‘But your menu says “baked potato".’
‘We changed it.’
‘Then why isn’t it crossed off? Why didn’t someone tell me when I ordered?’
[Blank stare.] ‘Sorry, ma’am.’
[Look of expectation from me.]
‘We’ll make you one.’
‘But it’s too lat—oh … OK, fine!’
Fifteen minutes later, when I’d almost finished my salmon and M&M’s spaghetti was all but a few cold strings coated in tomato sauce, a semi-cooked, sliced baked potato arrived at my side. Recognising that we were close to becoming unsatisfied customers, a member of staff kindly offered us complimentary coffee for the wait. Sighing and thinking what a decent gesture that was, I sucked it up, thanked him and ordered a latte. And then waited. For an hour.
‘Excuse me, we’re still waiting for a complimentary coffee.’
‘Oh … er …’
‘Your colleague offered it free [because of the shit service].
‘Oh … right … um … I’ll get it.’
Twenty minutes later, still no coffee. But magically, the bill arrived without us even having to ask for it — a hint, perhaps, that we’d outstayed our welcome?
Fuming and deliberating using my past status as restaurant reviewer/freeloading event-attendee as backup, we called the manager and expl
ained our dilemma, dealing with what seemed like resentment until he was forced to acknowledge that yes, his staff were perhaps a little … misinformed. As we were chatting, the waiter who had initially offered us the free coffee came over and flat-out denied to his manager that we had ordered anything at all. Lovely.
We were offered the coffee again, plus a complimentary dessert, but it was late, we were tired and quite clearly unwilling to sit there a second longer. After paying the full bill (yes, the whole lot — suckers!) we reached the end of our ordeal a little wiser and sloped off into the night, dejected and still angry at each other, thanks to everything else around us going tits-up.
I can’t help but think the JBR complex, labelled as finished but clearly only halfway there in oh-so-many ways, is a disaster area in general. One that looks relatively decent, in a freshly painted, council-estate sort of way, but in actuality is a magnet for inefficiency and angry, whinging snobs, like me.
05/07
The sound of freedom …
A spontaneous thunderstorm was brewing in the sky as the phone rang. A friendly sounding Emirati gentleman had seen my ad and was calling to see whether Gizmo was still searching for a new home.
‘Oh, my baby … er, yes of course,’ I told him, shutting myself in the kitchen so he couldn’t hear her screeching like the Exorcist in the bedroom. ‘You can come and take her now, if you like. I’ll get her things ready.’
Feeling only marginally guilty, I gathered her litter tray, toys and what was left of her food into a bag and went about shoving her wriggling body into the carry case. Of course, she screamed throughout the entire process and even tried to bite my fingers when I went to stroke her pointy ears through the bars. Bitch. I called Ewan, who was out with Sean. I told him our fluffy demon was about to be taken away forever into the unknown, just as she’d begun to trust us … just as she’d begun to live a life in front of the fridge instead of behind it. ‘Thank fuck,’ he replied. ‘Oh, don’t forget we need tea bags if you’re going out.’
Worrying that she’d yelp and cry and give the game away in front of her new owner, I shushed her with the most soothing voice I could muster as I closed the apartment door behind us and made my way downstairs in the lift. But as the 4x4 pulled up outside, the heavens opened. I looked up into the rain and whispered my heartfelt thanks to God, hardly believing my luck. It was as though the Almighty Himself was blessing this shameful handover, telling me it was OK to pass the baton of evil to this poor, unsuspecting gentleman, who probably hailed from a quiet home and thought his life was about to improve with the addition of a beautiful, loving pet of perfect temperament.
‘She’s a bit scared of the weather,’ I told the man in dishdasha, as a lightning bolt flashed across the sky and a roar of thunder almost managed to mask Gizmo’s antagonised screech from within the carry case. He took her from me quickly and looked through the bars as the rain hammered down.
‘She does seem a bit upset,’ he said, scratching his beard with his other hand.
I threw my best forlorn gaze in his direction. ‘Yeah, um. We’ve grown so close … and she doesn’t go outside much.’ I pretended to wipe a little tear, which luckily looked real thanks to the downpour we were now standing in.
‘Ah. Do not worry, I take very good care of her,’ he assured me with a kindly smile. ‘What is her name?’
I told him. He frowned. Something told me he’d never seen Gremlins.
Before she had a chance to scream above the storm in protest, Gizmo was bundled into the car along with her few belongings. I threw her an apologetic glance through the window and I swear I saw her mouthing vile insults in a language only Satan’s creatures understand. With another flash of lightning she was gone, speeding down the road towards a brand-new life. As I write, she’s probably out there somewhere, irritating even more innocent eardrums and ruining the nights of many more, unsuspecting souls.
Me? I’m just glad to watch my Dee-Wee-Dees in peace for once.
09/07
Sex on the beach …
Michelle and Vince. Most of us in Dubai now equate these names to the likes of Romeo and Juliet, Tony and Maria … Posh and Becks. These names are certain to go down in Middle Eastern history as the epitome of love doomed. Of course, there are no daggers, men in tights or musical numbers crooned from rooftops involved here, but this post-brunch tale of woe is one that every person in Dubai is watching unfold with bated breath as we go about our wholesome and restrained daily lives (ahem).
What happened was this … Michelle met Vince. Vince met Michelle. Their eyes met across a crowded restaurant and once they’d managed to focus on each other through their individual booze clouds, they decided that a bit of after-dinner nookie might well be a nice dessert. This is fair enough, you might be thinking. This is how the game is played by many horny youngsters today. However, Vince and Michelle, their values a little fuzzy thanks to an all-you-can-eat-and-drink bender, chose to do it (so to speak) on a sun lounge. On a beach. In front of an embarrassed Muslim security guard. He warned them not once but twice that it might be a good idea to stop; at which point, allegedly, Michelle chucked her shoe in his face. Game over, sister. They’re still behind bars.
It’s been a few weeks now since the story first unfolded. And thanks to our couple’s careless shenanigans, not a Brit in the city has been left unscathed by this brazen confirmation of a stereotype. The sordid affair began with an all-day champagne-fuelled blowout at the infamous Yalumba in Garhoud, so I’m told, and ended on a beach, very badly. But the pages are still turning, the tears are no doubt still falling, and Michelle’s unfortunate sponsors are still reeling in shock and shame.
We’re all sitting here wondering what the long-term effects of Michelle and Vince’s actions will be. M&M reckons they’ll be imprisoned for a very long time and thinks they deserve it. I do too, but then again, M&M and I have broken a few rules ourselves in a very strict country that has no tolerance whatsoever for misbehaviour. Ewan, while understanding what they did was wrong, feels sorry for them both being banged up in prison like shameful convicts. He, after all, is gay and worse would happen to him if he threw this fact in anyone’s face, with or without his shoe.
While they await their fate, which could include up to six months in the slammer, deportation and an inevitable future filled with total humiliation, it’s looking like the rest of us here have to suffer as a result of their behaviour. We’re now being watched everywhere we go. There are police cars outside every bar! Not even Harry Ghatto’s is safe and that’s on the second floor of a hotel tower block. It’s only a matter of time before one of us walks the wrong way out of a shopping mall, stinking of booze. They’re probably ordering in the extra prison food as we speak.
15/07
Catamarans and kisses …
I thought that spending the day on the catamaran would be an ideal location to set the plans for our trip to Nepal in motion. The Irishman and I have been talking about it for a while now. The flights are still cheap and we’ve got four other people interested in coming, only the guys involved are notoriously bad at allowing us girls to pin them down for dates. There’s nowhere to run when you’re out at sea.
‘Naaaat the frickin’ catamaran agaaaain …’ The Irishman moaned when I suggested it. ‘I was only on it last week, I was!’ I fear he may be starting to take his new lifestyle for granted. Once we were all on board, of course, we threw a couple of dates out there for Nepal and then got down to drinking. Watching him laugh and chat to randoms, and swig Corona after Corona, I was glad to see The Irishman didn’t really seem to mind being back on the catamaran so soon after his last voyage.
The live and loud DJ and the open bar with drinks all included in the price of the ticket mean this five-hour party on the ocean is a pretty regular occurrence in Dubai. It leaves every weekend from its spot in the Marina, chock full of sun-kissed boys and bikiniclad girls and winds up some five or six hours later at Barasti, at which point everyone clambers from the dec
ks, drunk, obliviously sunburnt and ready to carry on partying. It’s the brunch equivalent for those who don’t much care for the food part.
On this occasion, the sky was a clear blue instead of its usual dusty grey. It was one of those days you never want to end — good vibes, good people, the feeling that your life is absolutely perfect and you wouldn’t change a thing.
Of course, it’s moments like these when an overly analytical mind follows such thoughts with: Well, maybe I would change a few things … It made me think back to all the petty arguments I’ve been having with M&M lately, who unfortunately has been getting more and more possessive. Of course, he didn’t know that at that moment I was out on a catamaran with The Irishman — his self-appointed arch-enemy.
I’m well aware that I’m kind of daft for getting myself into a position where I feel like I can’t tell my married boyfriend where I’m going in case he gets angry. But the blow up after my photography outing was enough to silence me. In fact, there have been so many petty fights lately, I just don’t like to rock the boat, so to speak. I’m asking myself on a daily basis whether we’re still together or not. We seem to fall out so much that I wake up in the morning not entirely sure. It’s a big pressure, feeling like I’m replacing his wife. I mean, a few months back I wasn’t even allowed to call him for fear of someone finding out I existed. He seems so fragile, though. I don’t even know how to bring this up without causing a serious problem.
After M&M pretty much forbade me to spend time with The Irishman on our Maldives trip, I have, of course, continued to see him without letting on. My consequential secrecy is probably contributing to his suspicion and jealousy. I’ve been weaving quite a tangled web, I suppose, but telling M&M I’m still seeing him would upset him, and not seeing The Irishman would upset me. And Stacey, who’s seen it all unfold from the start, says I shouldn’t let anyone order me around. She’s bloody right, I reckon. Married or not, it’s a pretty harsh sentence when your boyfriend tells you not to do something you really enjoy doing. Unfortunately, a character flaw of my own is that when I’m told not to do something, I do it anyway, on purpose, a lot. It’s a Scorpio trait. An astrological prerequisite. Not my fault at all (ahem).
