Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  He said that the other day, a friend of his arrived at work to find a little Indian man sitting in the stationery cupboard, slicing up sheets of paper with a guillotine. He asked him what he was doing. The man stared at him blankly. This friend asked his manager what he was doing, only to be told it was a cost-cutting exercise. The poor guy was basically hired to hack an entire stack of A3 paper down into A4 sheets. In Dubai, you see, it’s cheaper to hire an Indian man for the week than it is to buy a new stack of A4 paper and a recycling bin for the rest.

  This has to be the most ridiculous thing ever … right? Wrong. What’s even more ridiculous, Sam continued, is that allegedly, a gigantic hole was being dug at the command of a sheikh, who was so eager to get the project started for a plaza or something that he evacuated hundreds of people from their homes on the site, demolished their villas and ordered his men to get to work … without obtaining proper planning permission. When the water started seeping in, it became obvious the exercise was pointless. The hole was too deep and too close to the sea, so all those people, now without homes, were just left looking at a giant, useless hole. Imagine! Sam says you can see it for yourself if you look down from a high enough building. I made up my mind to check it out!

  According to Sam, this isn’t the first time that work has been started on a project without the approval of a qualified engineer, architect or property developer. These people are all on the team from the get-go, of course, carefully hired and plied with oodles of cash. But at the end of the day, what the sheikh wants done is done, no arguments. He’s got a city to build, dammit! Why let a simple thing like structural engineering get in the way? Surely physical laws were made to be broken in the name of such a beautiful dream?

  The laws of the land are broken also, at times, when it comes to new projects. Sam thinks it might just be a rumour but apparently the Burj Al Arab, which markets itself as a seven-star hotel out on its own little island, was originally intended to house a casino on the top. Being ‘offshore’, officials thought the no-gambling rule might not apply once inside. Someone overruled the decision, obviously, but it might explain why what is now the very expensive Sky Bar has some truly, head-fuckingly awful patterned carpets.

  Sam also told me how the sheikh has apparently invested in a glorious new 130-metre yacht, which he’d quite like to dock in the bay of a brand-new private island. Sam’s good friend Rocko is involved in this project — a guy I’m set to meet in a couple of weeks when we all go on a snorkelling trip to the Musandam peninsula.

  Unfortunately, though, the bay to this piece of land, specially dredged up to please his Highness, is only 80 metres wide and 6 metres deep. The sheikh doesn’t like this. According to Rocko, he’s having to dock his fancy yacht about a mile out at sea and then take a speedboat across. This is highly inconvenient, especially as he usually rides a Segway (a two-wheeled, electric vehicle in case you’ve never seen one) everywhere and it’s difficult to transport a Segway on a little boat. It won’t be long before he deserts his very own desert island.

  This said, Rocko deems the sheikh as a pretty awesome bloke, albeit a bit of a dangerous dreamer. He’s spent a lot of time with him, thanks to his line of work. He’s hobnobbed with his people in various palaces all over the UAE and even helped to build a swimming pool for him in the grounds of one of them. Apparently, when it came to testing the paths around it, they had to be exactly wide enough for his Segway to pass. Even a little bridge, which took him to a beautiful grotto, had to be a certain width. Rocko was there when he tested it out.

  He stood there with bated breath and watched the mighty sheikh whiz about in his dishdasha, careful not to get the robes caught up in the wheels of his toy. As you can imagine, Rocko experienced the ultimate career high, and the absolute career low all in the same breath, as the man stepped off his Segway and told them all he was very pleased with his new paths.

  Perhaps more interesting is the fact that the sheikh hangs out with cage fighters. He is also a black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu — a form of martial arts for which there are no rules. Anything goes in a fight, except eye-gouging and biting. The sheikh loves this sport so much that in an act of kindness, he adopted twenty underprivileged kids, gave them schooling, encouraged them to keep fit and helped each one of them take up the martial art of their choosing. According to one of Rocko’s palace sources, they’re now pretty much a miniature army squad, taking part in international competitions and generally kicking arse. How cool is that? The man’s a walking, Arabic-talking legend. Building an entire city out of dust is just a side-project, clearly.

  I love hearing inside secrets about this place! I could have sat for hours with Sam, but we’d eaten all the complimentary snacks, and even people on ridiculously massive salaries can only stomach so many expensive gin slings. Makes me wonder what else is going on behind our backs here.

  27/02

  Coffin for two, please …

  I think ‘Project Snog’ is well and truly over. I’m feeling like such an idiot. I spoke to The Irishman today during my lunch break and he sounded a little more quiet than usual, a bit subdued. I thought perhaps his job was getting him down again but he said he had something to tell me … about Svana. I panicked. I thought something horrid had happened to her; I’ve not heard from her for a few days. But then he said: ‘Oi really, really loike her,’ which in my head of course translated as ‘We’ve fallen head over heels in love and have already done the deed behind your back, so there’.

  I didn’t really know what to say, so I said nothing. I just sort of stood there gaping into the phone like a retard. His words, plus the things they’d already done together, were getting bigger and badder in my imagination — so much so that perhaps the truth got a little lost, but still. Basically, my current best mate and the object of my somewhat skewed affections have seen the light and hooked up with each other. Great.

  As my brain was going crazy, swinging from denial into furious acceptance, The Irishman asked, ‘Are you OK?’

  This was what upset me most. He might as well have kneed me in the stomach. When a guy tells you gut-crunching news himself and then asks if you’re OK, you know he’s only asking in order to make himself feel better. If he really cares how you’re feeling, he wouldn’t be telling you things to make you upset, would he? (Or shagging your friend.)

  I felt so alone right there in the car park, where I always seem to be lately when I scream at people, or cry. I tried not to cry, however. I sucked it up and put on my happiest voice, making it sound like I really didn’t care at all. Me, bothered? Of course not! I’m so happy for you. She’s great, you’re great, what great news, thanks for sharing! Was there anything else?

  I’m not sure he was convinced. He knows me too well. And Svana surely must have questioned him about me, prior to falling for his cocky Irish charms herself. This whole thing has been screwed up from the start, thanks to my own pathetic weaknesses round M&M. It’s no wonder he’s pushed our dalliances into the past and moved on with someone better. But still … ugh ugh ugh.

  ‘We loike each other,’ he said, before asking again if I was OK. I felt my chin wobble. His confirmation that these feelings were mutual, plus his second caring question as to the state of my wellbeing was like a double smack in the face; proof, I suppose, that he gave up liking me in return ages ago but didn’t know how to tell me. He obviously found himself liking Svana far more than me, but was having to witness me acting like a total tool. Being a nice, caring guy, he pitied me for it. Ugh … The Irishman actually felt sorry for me.

  His words were the final nail being slammed into the coffin, into which he’d just lain what was left, if anything, of our twisted romance. I can picture it clearly … me, banging from the inside with my fists, screaming to be heard as he and Svana cast an evil glare over my pent-up soul, skipping off together, free of me, into the mountains. The mountains! That’s what made it all happen, isn’t it! They’re still planning their trip, inspired by Nepal. They found a common inter
est, a binding thread right in front of my face, which grew and grew and grew into something else. They really are skipping off into the bloody mountains. They always were, and I didn’t even realise. They didn’t realise, The Irishman went on to say. It just sort of … happened.

  I did less work at the agency today than I’ve ever done in my life — and that’s saying something. I just couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t even finish an email to Stacey explaining what had gone on. Couldn’t even update my Facebook status to: Becky: loathes the world and everyone in it.

  I suppose I should have seen it coming … but then again, maybe not. How can you ever see what’s coming, when you’re stuck in a rut of denial in the first place? They were already out together in the bar that night … the night it all came to a head with M&M. I hadn’t even known they were going out that night until I called Svana … and we usually all go out together. At the media-luvvie launch party, she didn’t elaborate on the topic of ‘Project Snog’, as we’d done a million times before. She just stared into her cocktail, probably wanting to tell me she had feelings for him herself, but not really knowing how to say it. I should have seen it then. Am I really so selfish and stupid these days, so caught up in my own pathetic life and ambitions that I can’t even see what’s right under my nose? Is this what Dubai’s done to me, or what I’ve done to myself as a result of getting so caught up in Dubai?

  One thing I do know. The way I feel right now — the absolute emptiness as I picture him with her and me with no one — it’s far more painful than when M&M dumped me way back on New Year’s Day. It’s worse than being dumped, I can tell you that much. I haven’t been dumped on this occasion because I never gave us a proper chance to be together. It’s the not knowing that’s the killer with things like this, isn’t it. It’s all the what-ifs.

  I was too much of a coward to finish things with M&M for good when I first had the chance to pick up where The Irishman and I left off in Spain. I was too scared. Too controlled. Too guilty for liking someone else when M&M had taken it upon himself to fall totally in love with me. I didn’t know how to face his utter misery and outbursts whenever I let it show that he wasn’t my number one priority. So I endured it while letting my heart wander anyway. I tried to break up with him, sure, but I always went back. Even if I didn’t go all the way back, I still let him think I was available. I shouldn’t have let him think I was available, not for one second. For the most part, now that I think about it, my heart was never properly available. If it was, then why is it breaking now?

  Svana tried to call me tonight but I couldn’t pick up the phone. I watched her name flash on the screen, feeling like a total bitch, knowing she probably feels bad. I’m her closest friend in Dubai these days. But I still just can’t imagine what I’d say to her. I know she didn’t do anything on purpose. She would never do that. These things happen. She’s a gorgeous, clever, fun-loving girl and he’s an amazing guy. And at the end of the day, I introduced them. I brought this on myself. My own boring, insufferable shit contributed to bringing them together. I know all this, but I feel so stupid and I really, really don’t want to have this whole conversation with her.

  Nope. This is all my fault, so I suppose I must face the consequences. I want to shut myself away for three weeks, eat chocolate, watch my thighs expand and do a Bridget Jones; I want to be eaten by Alsatians. Dubai has to have the biggest of everything. And I think I’m officially its biggest ever loser.

  11/03

  The boat that rocked …

  I almost pulled out of Sam’s snorkelling trip to the Musandam Peninsula, but Ewan told me I should really make the effort to get myself out and mix with some new people. I think he’s just a bit sick of seeing me slouching round the flat. As you can imagine, our household hasn’t exactly been full of delight lately. Just as Ewan’s probably sick of hearing about my stupid boy dramas, I’m sick of hearing about his miserable company not paying anyone. In a show of friendship and solidarity, however, we carry on confiding in each other, pissing each other off and generally making things worse. It’s just what friends are for really, isn’t it?

  The Musandam Peninsula is the northernmost part of Oman. It’s a pretty nice drive from Dubai, takes a few hours if you stop along the way and gives you the perfect opportunity to appreciate just how modern Dubai really is … or will be, if they ever finish it. Everything else on the outside of our booming city exists just as it did thirty years ago. Camels, cows and goats are everywhere. Women cover up fully. Dusty carts selling fruit and veg still sit on the roadsides, as do carpet-sellers and bearded men making ceramic pots. It’s a bit like stepping back in time to the UAE before oil came along.

  Sam organised a dhow for about fifteen people. It was a large, wooden barge affair, moored in a beautiful spot surrounded by mountains. We spent the night aboard and didn’t have to get off once, except to swim. Our Indian crew took full control of the sailing and all our food was included; they cooked up some fabulous fish and incredible salads too — very impressive! Oh, and between us we took enough booze to last a week.

  Rocko was one of the first people I met. He bounded up to me as I was examining my legs for nasty, itchy mosquito bites, which I must have got a couple of nights before in the Yacht Club. The Yacht Club in the Marina is right on the water and lately the mozzies have been out in force. Anyway, I looked up from my scratching and there he was, all smiles and sparkly eyes and saying he’s heard a lot about me from Sam. Obviously I’d been hearing a lot about him too. I was dying for more details on the Sheikh’s shenanigans! He doesn’t actually look at all like the kind of person who mixes in royal circles for a living, but then … who does?

  One thing I’ll say about the Musandam is that I’ve never seen water that colour in my life. The Maldives were pretty awesome, but the bird’s-egg blue of the seemingly bottomless waters just a few hours’ drive from Dubai are in another league entirely. The water in Dubai probably used to be the same; so clear that you could see 10 metres to the floor. All the dredging that’s killing the fish is also churning up the sand, so you can hardly see your kneecaps when you’re waist-deep off Jumeirah Beach anymore. It’s such a shame. Makes me wonder what else is still in the water … hmmm … maybe that’s what’s causing the mosquito population to explode.

  When I jumped from the dhow with my snorkel, I jumped straight into swarms of tiny, darting fish. That was a bit freaky — they’ll nibble your fingers and toes if you stay still enough. We could see them waiting for us below as we leaned over the edge of the dhow. They swam in a colourful swirl of yellow and silver, like an underwater storm cloud. Rocko knew the name of them but I can’t remember now.

  I even saw a stingray on the bottom! I’ve never seen a stingray directly below me before. It was massive. I’ll admit, pathetically, thoughts of Steve Irwin’s early demise flashed through my head as I was looking at it and I suddenly felt an urge to get away. Being a Kiwi, Rocko had a blow-up sheep on hand to save me, naturally. It served as a floating device and later on became a prop for photos as we all got slowly shit-faced in the moonlight — my absolute favourite part of the trip! You can’t beat a game of drunken truth or dare with a bunch of strangers in the middle of nowhere.

  As I drank my vodka and Cokes, I listened to Rocko regale us with tales of New Zealand, where he’s from. It’s obvious he misses home. We might have been in the most beautiful corner of the Middle East, but the difference between the harsh desert landscapes and the lush green canvas painted by nature in New Zealand is pretty huge. I spent a month there once.

  We also witnessed a magical, neon sea at night. I watched it shimmer and shine as we chatted. Apparently, tiny bioluminescent creatures in the water make this light by combining oxygen with other body chemicals. Clever, eh? It’s a really weird effect. In the black of night, the water round our dhow looked like it was glistening with fallen stars.

  Rocko’s hilarious, by the way! I haven’t laughed as much in ages as I did around that random group of people on
the dhow. He lives in Abu Dhabi and as well as all his stories about ridiculously wealthy people and projects doomed for failure, he’s got this infectious chuckle that makes you want to squeeze his cheeks. He’s pretty hot too … although obviously I was determined to stay in a bad mood and look to the mountains for reflection on my traumatic situation. Self-pity is the new black in my current wardrobe of woe.

  I still haven’t really spoken to The Irishman and Svana. I just can’t seem to do it. Stacey’s telling me to suck it up, get over it, accept that I’ve been a knob and wish them well. I know she’s right. But it’s been more than two weeks now and the longer I go without answering their calls, or calling them myself, the less I feel like I can deal with them.

  I’m probably just being a coward because I actually do wish them well. I want them to make each other smile. I want them to climb lots of mountains and dance off into the hills for a Disneystyle happy ever after, I really do. They’re two of my favourite people and I miss them both like mad … but I just don’t want to know about their relationship. I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to see them, even individually, because it really fucking hurts. And it makes me hate myself for being such an idiot over M&M. I know I’m being selfish, but I don’t want to hate myself every time I look at them together. I just want to take my mind off the whole thing.

  Obviously, Dubai hasn’t been floating my boat for a while, but now … now I’m just killing time, I suppose, floating on boats. It’s good to meet new people, though, do different things. I think I need to work more on rediscovering this happier side of myself and make it stick — which is exactly why I’ve just accepted Rocko’s offer of a date. Well, why not?

  I didn’t even know he’d taken a shine to me until Sam told me when we got back. I thought my relatively morbid frame of mind and the state of my unshaven, mosquito-bitten legs would have put anyone off, and romance was the last thing on my mind. To be honest, it still is. But Rocko’s a fun guy to be around, so confident and positive and full of the optimism I had myself when I first got here. I definitely need some of that around me right now.