Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  A courteous tongue was required in Kathmandu, a city in which the service is so bad, you’re never entirely sure that the food you order is going to arrive. That’s if you even manage to contact anyone working at the restaurant you’ve been sitting in for ages in the first place. The Nepalese operate on another time system entirely. I waited more than an hour for a bean burger the night after ‘the spinach incident'.

  If Ewan had been there, he’d have had his business card out in seconds and hauled the lazy chef into another room for a media interrogation. I wasn’t actually sure if I should be eating anything at all, really, but Svana, who was my absolute saviour during the entire bout, told me I should really try and put some lining back in my stomach. The staff at the lodge brought me water and a Panadol tablet when she told them I was in the cabin, emptying my guts of their lunch buffet, but that was the only thing I consumed in a whole two days. I even missed an early-morning elephant trek through the mist, thanks to my sickness. The backs of elephants don’t have toilet cubicles in Nepal, in case you were wondering. They’d probably have them installed in Dubai, though.

  In regards to the terrible service, Kathmandu isn’t unlike Dubai — although it’s rare to find yak’s milk on a coffee menu in the UAE. For a country that produces coffee by the kilo, it’s surprisingly difficult to come by a good cup in Kathmandu.

  Anyway, I’d be lying if I said the eight of us who ended up on the trip strapped on those backpacks (or in my case, hot-pink wheelie case from Carrefour, darling) thinking luxury would be following us to Nepal. In the jungle lodge, where we spent two nights surrounded by chirruping grasshoppers and random rhino snorts, I even had a strange urge to see a tarantula. Now, I’m normally terrified of spiders. I’m not sure what I’d do if I saw one except cry and turn blue, but in a funny sort of ‘face the fear’ way I wanted to see what would really happen if I did. None appeared. Looking back, I’m glad — what was I thinking? I’m all talk in the jungle. And shits.

  Back to those. I’m not entirely sure why the plate of soggy spinach affected me and nobody else, but one minute I was walking through the bushes on another of our ‘wildlife tours', waving a giant stick with The Irishman and Svana on either side of me, and the next, my entire innards worked in tandem to shift position. I started to sweat. I wanted to puke. I hurried back to the cabin I was sharing with Svana and did exactly that in the toilet. The spinach was the first thing to reappear, but over the course of the next twenty-four hours, my entire stomach lining decided it quite liked the outside world. While I was hugging my porcelain friend, I couldn’t help but think that if this was something that happened as often as I suspected it did, the staff at the lodge could at least have put a nice rug on the floor … maybe even some ‘toilet mitts’ so I wouldn’t have to touch anything nastier than the remnants of my lunch, now hanging in my hair.

  The Irishman came to visit me on my sickbed, which made me feel a bit better. He stayed for about ten minutes before the smell of puke drove him back to his beers around the campfire. And as it happened, he left just in time. My grumbling bowels showed no mercy. Lying there, listening to them all having fun without me was the worst part. Why couldn’t this have happened in Dubai, when I could have sweated it out in relative comfort in the Jacuzzi, or watched Peep Show right through from series one to five with no distractions, sprawled on my giant sofa surrounded by nice squidgy cushions? Being sick on holiday is the most depressing thing in the world, isn’t it? The timing is so unbelievably inconvenient that you feel even worse, even more of an outcast, like the universe is laughing in your sweaty, sick-covered face.

  I actually thought about texting M&M, just to get a comforting response. But my phone wouldn’t work in the jungle. Staring at the damp-covered ceiling I realised I had one million dirhams in my bank account, yet I was all alone. Unreachable — physically, spiritually, metaphorically, mobile-phoneally …

  When I was semi-better, however, Nepal was pretty much a medicine in itself. We passed through a hundred tiny mountainside villages in our rickety bus, listening to tunes on our iPod speakers that didn’t match the scenery at all. These places, like many I’ve seen on my travels in the past two years, are still rooted in the basic and very bare necessities of life. Baloo the bear might not have come out to see us (he’d have been an evil sloth bear in Nepal), Shere Khan the tiger stayed hidden with his thirty-four pals and only a handful of monkeys rustled the treetops for our entertainment, but the real wonders of Nepal, we discovered, sat on the outskirts of the lush green jungle. Lambs frolicked on doorsteps, chickens pecked around gravel paths and happy children ran about in fields of bright yellow flowers and golden hay, just as carefree as they seemed to be in India and Yemen.

  I’ve noticed I always look at the children wherever I go now. I can kind of imagine myself as them, you know … growing up the way they do in these places, so far removed from how I was brought up myself. Sometimes I think life would be so much simpler if I’d never had the chance to become ‘too ambitious'. Not that I’m ungrateful, but … er … you know what I mean.

  Of course, there is poverty in Nepal. Lots of it. But a lot of the time, those who don’t appear to have much actually have a lot. It struck me as more peaceful than India, more spiritual perhaps. I want to live in Chitwan, as a self-sufficient citizen of nature. I can actually imagine myself enjoying the lifestyle, living on a diet of everything I’d grow myself (except spinach).

  It’s funny but in Nepal the fact that I was wandering about in possession of a million dirhams was actually holding me back. I thought to myself as I watched the hills roll past from the bus window, perhaps I’d have stayed, tried it out for a while, if responsibility wasn’t tying me down. Obviously, it was just a dream. I’d have been savaged by a rabid monkey in minutes if my bus had driven off without me, but it’s nice to let your imagination run wild from time to time. At heart, we’re all Nepalese adventurers, on Western remote controls. The Irishman and Svana both said they felt so inspired that they wanted to go back, or go somewhere else for another adventure — maybe even climb a mountain. I told them they could do that by themselves …

  Getting out of Dubai tends to bring you back to life, somehow. I couldn’t help the odd look at The Irishman, having such a good time. He’s infectious when he’s messing about like a hyperactive child. We always bounce jokes off each other and the hours we spent on buses between Chitwan and Kathmandu were no exception. He’s just such fun to be around, and I think when you spend so much time with happy people, it kind of rubs off on you. The thing I remember most about Nepal is laughter. And spinach, obviously. Though I’ll try not to dwell on that.

  18/12

  The 22 degrees of Christmas …

  Someone at the agency just said it was 22 degrees outside, which is quite exciting. That’s positively freezing to someone who spends her life in strappy tops and sandals. I’m embracing it. Today I’ve personally opted for a polo neck dress, leggings and a scarf. Of course, the sun has since decided to come out.

  I felt a little bit stupid at lunchtime when a tourist walked past me in shorts, so I made a little brrrrr sound and hugged my arms to my chest to emphasise my acclimatisation and consequential clothing needs.

  The cold is good for other reasons. We’re going ice-skating on Saturday. Ice-skating, in the desert. Well, not technically in the desert, but Dubai is sort of in the desert, so I guess I can make that claim. They’ve constructed a 300-square-metre rink on the Marina Promenade, so we can all graze our butt cheeks in the glory of the great outdoors. I’m not sure how much of it is rooted in hope that the sun doesn’t come back out and turn it into a pond, but if they hand out lifejackets as well as skates, then I guess we’ll know it’s another praiseworthy Dubai dream that probably should have stayed on a blueprint.

  On Saturday I’m planning to glide, hand in hand, with The Irishman, Torvill-and-Dean-style, laughing gaily as my hair blows beautifully like an auburn flag in the wind. Of course, that’s what will happen in my he
ad, before I fall over and cause a heap of angry chaos like I normally do when my fictional abilities clash with reality.

  I think Sash, Svana and Ewan are coming too. Sash has recently broken up with another boyfriend, so she’s in need of some decent escapism opportunities, and she, The Irishman, Svana and I have become a bit of a gruesome foursome since we got back from Nepal. I didn’t actually think Sash, with her perfect model looks and penchant for appearing well groomed twenty-four hours a day, would like Nepal, but as it happens, it’s given her a new-found need to work in a poverty-stricken country. She’s even looking at teaching English in rural Thailand when she leaves Dubai. Svana and The Irishman are also still talking about climbing a mountain … I think they’re actually serious.

  It’s definitely feeling festive in these parts — surprisingly so. Santa looks a bit disgruntled as he sits in the Madinat’s Christmas Market in his itchy beard, listening to kids ask: ‘Please get Mummy and Daddy a loan so we don’t lose our house and car.’ Still, the magic of Christmas can’t be completely crushed by a global economic crisis, can it? There’s still the ‘shopping without your parents to say no’ thing. We might not have anyone to buy us a PlayStation, but last night Ewan and I took great joy in treating ourselves to a giant supermarket sweep, a delightfully superfluous calorific affair, so riddled with e-numbers that I half expected that lady from You Are What You Eat to pop out from behind a bag of Doritos and start threatening to dissect our poop.

  It felt good, carrying our cheap little tree home and then constructing it in our living room, listening to ‘Christmas Rock’n'Roll'. Even though Ewan’s still a little short on the cash front, he’s decided it’s the season to be jolly after all. And just like last Christmas in this crazy place, we’ve no choice but to create these comforts ourselves. It’s important. Otherwise we’d be sad and lonely and even more single than we both are already … [insert violins here].

  Back to that. I had to give the money back to M&M. He’s ironed out his problems and has managed to walk away from the whole ordeal without being sent to the slammer, which is a relief. However, I was quite enjoying having that beautiful, imaginary nest egg, while it lasted.

  It does take the pressure off our already strained relationship, though. Not having a million dirhams in my bank account is a small price to pay for feeling like I’m free. M&M has been getting very intense again lately. I still don’t quite understand why he can’t accept how miserable we seem to make each other. His intensity and jealousy suffocate me and my resulting secrecy drives him crazy, but it’s almost like he can’t admit defeat. At times I wonder if he looks at me like one of his business deals; one that he can’t quite close. It annoys him. Anyway, I can only leave him to his own analyses as I feel like the time might be approaching for me to leave Dubai. Things aren’t the same anymore, and being single while I sort things out is definitely better than struggling in what’s clearly a doomed relationship.

  I can’t believe that this time next week it’ll be Christmas Day! Svana is bringing the turkey from the five-star hotel she works at — even though she’s a vegetarian, bless her. Just like last year we’re doing the ‘orphan’ thing, for which we’ll each cook a dish and take it to someone’s apartment, where the majority of our lovingly prepared spread will inevitably go cold and in the bin as we get shit-faced on red wine and fall asleep like old age pensioners on the sofa.

  Where did the year go again? I remember my nan telling me the years get shorter as you get older. I believed her. I thought she meant it literally, like I’d finally get to 2020 and it would only consist of January. I know what she meant now. Time flies.

  04/01

  Solidarity, songs and skyscrapers …

  Another year is over. A new world has dawned. The year 2009 is upon us, which means 2012 — the time of robots and spaceships — is another year nearer, too! Can’t wait. There have already been some pretty monumental changes around these parts, not least the one that happened at The Irishman’s villa over Christmas. I’ll come back to that. There was, of course, the quashing of Dubai’s eagerly anticipated New Year’s celebrations in light of the terrible attacks on Gaza — a decision which angered many mostly because of the credit crunch as well as the general need to ‘just have a little bit of fun'.

  It seems Dubai was briefly torn over a desire to forget the tragedies of current times and a responsibility to remember them for how such things affect us all, somehow. Parties went on in people’s homes, of course. It just meant that a few villas were messier than usual the next day. I sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with a guitar-playing stranger and sixty people in masks at The Irishman’s pad on the Palm. And the general consensus was, as we all high-fived at midnight against a firework-free sky, that ultimately Dubai made the right decision to show solidarity in the face of uncertainty.

  Then strangely, we were submitted to an orchestra of pan pipes on the radio. There’s nothing like a spot of The Carpenters on the flute in the key of F-sharp as you’re hurtling down the highway in a cab to make you feel a tad uncomfortable. Flags waved at half-mast all over the city before it was announced that, yes, sadly, something was indeed wrong. The very important Sheikh Rashid Bin Ahmad Al Mu’alla passed away on Friday. You may have heard of him (or not). He was only seventy-seven years old and inevitably enjoyed a carb-laden lifestyle in a palace somewhere, sitting, scoffing, smoking shisha, stroking lions and passing judgment. He will be missed.

  In other 2009 news, the Dubai Mall Aquarium has opened. It’s the biggest fish tank you’ve ever seen, right in the middle of what is essentially another soulless shopping centre. It stretches 51 metres by 20 metres and features the world’s largest viewing panel at 32.8-metres wide and 8.3-metres high. (Dubai loves big facts and figures.) You can stand there with your face pressed against the glass, watching sharks, stingrays and occasionally divers swimming about inside, before nipping into H&M next door for a T-shirt. It’s amazing. We’re told that 33,000 sea creatures live inside. It also has the capacity to hold ten million litres of water. That’s a hell of a lot of fluid and a scary amount of beasts with sharp teeth. I just hope it never breaks.

  Anyway, just as 2008 had Atlantis, 2009 will have the Burj Dubai … another topic that’s raising as many eyebrows as it will do glasses when it’s finished, I’m sure. The word on the street is that the 160 or so floors have cost several billion dollars to build. It’ll house a hotel designed by Giorgio Armani and some office space, but the question on everyone’s lips is how high will it really be?

  ‘If you put the Empire State building on top of the Sears Tower then it’s reasonable to say you’ll be in the neighbourhood,’ says Mr William Baker, the chief structural engineer on this groundbreaking project. But he’s not giving much away, really. Come on, won’t you give us a clue?

  ‘We’re not allowed to say. The client hasn’t announced what it is and I don’t think they will. It’ll turn into urban folklore. You’ll have people measuring the shadows on Google Earth and trying to figure it out.’

  This all sounds very intriguing … until you apply logic. As my dad pointed out via email: ‘Has Mr Baker not heard of triangulation?’

  I googled it. It’s a very simple formula involving angles. The ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Chinese and the Arabs (maybe) knew about it. Measure a distance to the base of an object, measure the angle from that point to the top and a bit of simple maths will give you the height. It’s a bit worrying that the man in charge of building the world’s tallest structures isn’t familiar with it, but then again, half the fun of Dubai has always been in the ‘theory’ of it all.

  ‘We could definitely go taller,’ says Mr Baker, in a rant that includes predicting the possibility of towers 1,000 metres high. ‘The next generation of tall buildings are in a hiatus right now, but there’re places with pent-up demand. I see China continuing with that, and India will come into it soon …’

  OK, enough. Geek! Our heads are spinning already. It’s 2009, almost 2012. Let’s just think a
bout shopping malls and robots some more.

  16/01

  P.S. I hate you …

  It could have been because we were high on festive spirits … and it could have been because we’ve been keeping something inside since our very close encounter at the party last year, but The Irishman and I shared another surprise snog over Christmas, after a late night out drinking at the Madinat. We cabbed it back to his villa, danced around his room like idiots for a bit and locked lips on the bed till we fell asleep. To be fair, we were hammered again, just like we were when it happened before, but still, this twisted idea of a platonic relationship is all a bit confusing.

  I’ve been talking about it all to Svana, my newest confidante in relationship theory since Stacey only became available via Skype. Svana, like a lot of people, thinks The Irishman and I should be together. She says she noticed something about the way he looked at me in Nepal — and it wasn’t swayed by the fact that I couldn’t string two sentences together without feeling like my guts were about to explode. And because he hasn’t done anything about initiating a date or anything at all since our latest passionate embrace, Svana and I have embarked on Project Snog (or ‘P.S.', as we’ve taken to calling it). She’s promised to get some handy information out of him regarding what he really thinks of me, so I can put my mind at rest.

  After the first time, when nothing happened as a result of our poolside pash, it was easy to think The Irishman had written me off as a home-wrecking retard, already under the thumb of a man I moan about all the bloody time. I sort of got over it, let my feelings go, decided being single was the way forward … but now that it’s happened again. For God’s sake, does he like me or not? A girl needs to know.