The courtyard continues to fill up with a mix of expats and Gulf State tourists. Tanned legs in designer footwear strut in front of black abayas that sweep along the floor, sky-blue shorts contrast with starched white dishdashas, and ice-cold beers gather condensation while steam rises from glasses of mint tea: the only things that mix are the cigarette smoke and the fruity fragrances drifting in billowing clouds from the shishas. Words of English, Arabic and French dance in the air while tambourines and traditional ouds shake and strum an exotic melody above the pulsating, sensual baseline of the electro-beat that pounds from invisible loudspeakers, a soundtrack to the scene. A teenage boy in an embroidered waistcoat and black harem trousers appears carrying a tray of hot charcoal. Using what look like sugar tongs, he quickly replaces the ash on the bowl of my water pipe with glowing coals. Sucking the mouth-tip, I take another deep drag on the pipe, savouring the taste of the smoke. Over the starter, we discuss what we would like to do in the coming days. We both know people here. I tell Peter he should meet my friend Cesar: we can go out for dinner together, perhaps party afterwards. We want to go shopping, but have no idea what we want to buy. The main course arrives and our conversation descends as fast as the wine in the bottle: we begin to discuss the people around us, who we find sexy, who not. We jokingly pair each other off with the most unsuitable partners, vying to see who can spot the least likely match. We are sliding into holiday mode. I can feel myself slipping into fantasy land.
***
Next morning, the smoke from the shishas has vanished from the courtyard, replaced by dazzling sunlight, but the dregs of gin and wine are still flowing through my veins. I am part way through my usual hotel breakfast routine: juice, then fruit salad, followed by smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. After the virtuous start, I feel less guilty as I tuck into a pain au chocolat and a blueberry muffin. Peter is wolfing down his own standard fare, which approximates a full English breakfast. We laugh about the night before. We have thought of things we need to buy.
After a slow start to the day, we stroll over to the Dubai Mall. It is only a few hundred metres to the world’s largest shopping centre, but the walk in the early summer heat brings back vague memories of Camus’ L’Étranger from French class, of scuttling along shadeless streets. The last time I was here, ‘The Old Town’ was still being built, a mass of cranes, hoarding, and sinewy workers from the subcontinent, armies of shadowy figures working through the night as we cruised past in our air-conditioned taxi. Now, we are in the middle of a copy of an ancient desert city that never existed, imitation mud walls concealing comfort and luxury, palm trees and lawns growing as if on hormones. We walk past a long, decorative pool in the broad courtyard of a five-star hotel that looks like a 1950s Hollywood film set. At the far end, feeling as if we have trekked across the entire Arabian Peninsula, we pass through heavy glass doors into the coolness of the Souk al Bahar where the first thing we see is a pastiche of an ‘olde English tea shoppe’, all ruche and pink swirls, with tapestry-style seat covers and curtains. It is like Barbie meets Miss Marple: it is hideous. We quickly realise the souk has about as much to do with a Middle Eastern bazaar as Selfridges on London’s Oxford Street. There are escalators and air-conditioning, stands peddling souvenirs, shops selling fine furniture, and a store specialising in erotic underwear. Two mannequins in the window are clad in scraps of red and black lace, strategically placed love hearts providing the finishing touch. Al Bahar is compact and up-market, but its designer chocolates and couture scarves languish in empty boutiques. It is a soulless place in every sense of the word. We float through its corridors and out the other end, where we make our way over the bridge, a gentle arc that leads to where the real shops are.
Towering above us is the world’s tallest building, the Burj Khalifa, a sparkling spire reaching over 800 metres into the sky. Separating us from this edifice is a large turquoise lake that spills out from the promenade in front of the Dubai Mall. A modest crowd, braving the heat and with cameras at the ready, has gathered at its edge. Suddenly, a mass of fountains shoots up, flamboyantly spouting water 150 metres into the desert air in time to music. A ripple of applause and gasps of amazement drift across from the crowd. On my previous visit, the Burj was half the height; now it stands a triumph of engineering. It is the latest example of a human fascination that began all those years ago in Babylon with Etemenanki – the 90-metre-high Tower of Babel; a fascination with constructing ever higher buildings, with reaching to the heavens in a demonstration of power, of invincibility. How apt that the shimmering skyscraper should stand in this of all cities, a glittering centre of hedonism. I stop to look at it, shading my eyes against the reflection of the sun on the water and glass. For a building containing a third of a million tonnes of concrete, it is remarkably graceful: few must be those, I suspect, who fail to be impressed at the sight of it. Peter hates heights, but I determine to go up the tower whilst we are here.
A few moments later, we have exchanged the dry, burning heat for the air-conditioned protection of the mall with its piped music, spacious atria and wide avenues housing over a thousand retail outlets. We meander along one of the walkways, strolling past some shops, wandering into others, enjoying their perfumed interiors. We feel fabrics, smell leather, look at watches, start to be tempted, all the time slipping deeper and deeper into the fool’s paradise of consumerism, Dubai-style. We are as surprised to discover T-shirts selling for hundreds of dollars as we are to find stores like Topman, the latter no doubt catering to the expat market. Caucasians walk by, barely within the limits of the respectable dress code requested on the mall entrance doors, arms and legs exposed as if on a beach holiday in Spain. Yet they are invisible to the locals and visitors from other Gulf States in their flowing robes: heads never turn, eyebrows betray nothing and, unlike back home, none of the Muslim males here hiss comments about morality to Western girls as they walk past. Men in crisp white dishdashas and women in abayas made of the finest cloth saunter along the mall’s avenues, the pedicured feet of both in footwear that would cost some people a month’s salary, their watches and jewellery lifted straight from the pages of a Financial Times weekend supplement. Doing my best not to stare, I try to imagine the lives of these people. I remember the words of a German architect friend who works a lot in the region. He told me about the huge houses he designed for families in the Gulf States, explaining how the basements were parking garages, with the domestic staff lodged in windowless rooms on the level below the collections of luxury vehicles. I look at the wealthy Arabs passing me in the mall and wonder if they will return to such mansions to be waited on by humble workers emerging obediently from the subterranean depths. As I watch those around me, I realise that the vast shopping centre is in fact a great leveller in this highly stratified population. As much as anything, the malls are one of the few truly public spaces here. It is too hot to linger outside, but their air-conditioned walkways offer even those of more modest means shelter from the desert heat and an opportunity to take part in Dubai’s dream world, if only vicariously.
We walk as far as Bloomingdale’s, finally giving in to our credit cards’ itch to come out of our wallets, before continuing to the Galeries Lafayette, each now with a large bag. We drift in and out of one store after another. The plastic gets regular airings, the purchases become more capricious. The shop assistants, many more from the Far East than the last time I was here, are unfailingly gracious and smiling, professionals at making us feel like visiting royalty, opening doors and wishing us a pleasant stay. Like hypnotic djinn doing a dance of temptation, the range, the choice, the novelty, all start to swirl around as we explore level after level of the vast mall, equivalent in size to fifty football pitches. In the middle of it all we find the Gold Souk, a collection of expensive jewellers’ shops in a simulation of an Islamic courtyard. They are surrounded by stores selling the sort of bling you might find on any high street, and in the middle stands a row of would-be-quaint wooden carts flogging cheap souvenirs. A few un
rented retail spaces, their fronts covered by smart hoarding with Arabesque designs, lend this geographic centre of the mall a strangely unfinished feel. A sign at the top of an escalator points down to a basement branch of Waitrose, a high-end British supermarket. We trudge on past shoe shops and window displays of opulent furniture, a mass of golden swirls and purple velvet. We pause outside what claims to be the world’s largest sweet shop and gaze at an Olympic-sized ice rink where children are skating, their excited cries echoing around the cavernous atrium. Shop after shop, boutique after boutique: the mall seems endless. We stop to admire the multi-storey waterfall with its silver statues of divers plunging its length, have a late lunch in a mock French bistro, and shuffle round the aquarium, knocking people with our shopping in the walkthrough tunnel as we watch sharks swim overhead.
If the coolness of the air-conditioning cannot temper our feverish acquisitiveness, fatigue and the increasing weight of our bags do. Eventually, we take a taxi for the journey back to the hotel, even though it is just a stone’s throw away, and deposit our mass of purchases in a corner of the room, our homemade altar to consumerism somewhat spoiling the elegance of the minimalist Arabesque decor. Exhausted, but still feeling the benefits of retail therapy, we decide to relax by the pool and head downstairs to the striped sun loungers. We order cold Lebanese beers from a pool attendant with teeth as dazzlingly white as his hotel-issue polo top and discuss our plans for the evening. While Peter, the brim of his new baseball cap pulled low, checks office e-mails on his phone, I text my architect friend Cesar, reflecting on how Dubai must be heaven for someone in his profession. Cesar is a party animal and will show us a good time, I tell Peter between refreshing swigs of Almaza. A few seconds later, the sound of the hunting horn proclaims his response: we should head up to the Marina for drinks at the Yacht Club, followed by dinner. Peter contacts François, a mutual French friend of ours here, proposing he join us. François is a great fan of Dubai who is constantly encouraging us to come and visit. His reply does not come straightaway and sounds odd when it arrives. He will join us, but is not in much of a party mood.
A few hours later, our taxi pulls up at the Marina, a hot spot for expats at the other end of town, twenty kilometres away from our hotel. As we walk up the steps to the Yacht Club, I can feel perspiration already starting to trickle down my back in the humidity. We make our way to the bar past beautiful twenty- and thirty-somethings poised in the lobby like models in a brochure from an up-market clothing store. We quickly find Cesar. Like us, he has just arrived and has not yet been engulfed by the loud mass of party goers. His shirt, open at the neck, reveals a tanned chest, the rolled-up sleeves, muscular arms. I take an instant fancy to his blue suede loafers. We fight our way to the bar and, after some polite jostling, eventually manage to order beers. Everyone seems to know each other. Cesar greets and is greeted as we push our way through the crowd, trying not to spill our drinks. We go outside on to the terrace with its view of the Marina and lavish residential towers. It is almost as busy as indoors, but, again, the humidity is stifling. By now, I can feel my new shirt sticking to me. We fight our way back inside, but it is difficult to hear ourselves think above the music, the laughter, the voices. Finishing our drinks, we decide to go to dinner. Peter texts François, who says he will meet us in the restaurant.
Another cab ride past a forest of skyscrapers, their countless windows lighting up the night, and then the three of us are sitting at a table for four in a South American theme restaurant that looks like a cross between a prison and a ranch. Brick walls and iron bars, cow skins and black and white photographs make a strange combination, but it works. While we wait for our Parisian friend, we order caipirinhas and a bottle of sparkling water from the Brazilian waiter, who makes a point of telling us that his name is Eduardo. With his slicked-back hair, he looks like Rudolf Valentino, but the Chinese symbols tattooed on his forearm place him firmly in the twenty-first century. We enjoy the air-conditioning, study the menu, say cheers when our glasses clink and sip our drinks as lounge music mixes with the conversation of other diners. Behind the long counter, a barman with a ponytail and a crooked nose is juggling three spirits bottles as he tries to impress two blonde women perched on high stools. They are laughing coquettishly, encouraging him and relishing the attention; above the music I can just make out their broad Yorkshire accents.
François arrives, escorted to the table by another waiter who, like Eduardo, is dressed entirely in black. I am shocked to see how much weight François has gained and struggle to stop my gaze drifting towards his newly expanded belly. We go through the greeting ceremonies and introduce him and Cesar to each other. Sitting down, he also orders a caipirinha and we, having nothing left but melted ice to sip noisily through our little black straws, ask for the same. Like Cesar, François is an architect, but, in contrast to my Lebanese friend, he is pale, his blond features and blue eyes sensitive to the city’s glaring sun. Passing slender fingers over his dense flaxen beard, he tells us in his light accent he has had a bad day. In fact, he has lost his job, he sighs, just as the waiter returns with our order. We pick up our glasses, unsure what to say, stirring our cocktails with the straws. Then we drink and ask François to tell us what happened.
Things had been difficult for some time, he tells us: a colleague did not like him. The guy was an Emirati, so had the upper hand – they always do, he says, staring into his glass, eyes glistening. Foreigners here count for very little. If you are caught speeding you have to pay a huge fine, but locals do what they want, he shrugs. He says the colleague was jealous of him because he was producing better results. It did not take long for him to conjure something up, to plot a way to make sure François was sacked. Now, he needed to find a new post, fast, otherwise he would be thrown out of the country. When I ask whether he will get any compensation, he affects a laugh. He has to work thirty days’ notice and then he has the same period again to find a job before losing his residency permit. The waiter reappears, beaming like a game show host, and asks us if we are ready. While the rest of us say what we want, François, biting what is left of his thumbnail, quickly scans the menu, then tells the waiter he will have a steak.
While I savour my caipirinha, Cesar says he knows a firm that might have some openings coming up. François seems unconvinced, but, quickly finishing his cocktail, appears to reconsider and thanks him for the lead. I study them as they exchange telephone numbers and agree to speak the next day. Our French friend becomes suddenly more upbeat, the sombre tone that had descended evaporates and, by the time the food arrives, we are all back in party mode and in need of more drinks. We order some wine, start eating and then Peter and I begin to list all the things we bought in the mall. By the time dinner is finished, it no longer seems to matter that François has lost his job and, after another bottle of Bordeaux, we decide to go to a bar that Cesar knows.
Once again, we are in a taxi cruising along the Sheikh Zayed Road, the multi-lane highway that forms Dubai’s backbone, this time heading back south to the Marina area. The wailing strains of a Pakistani woman accompanied by unmelodic music warble out from the dashboard. As if transported to another world by his compatriot’s voice, the silver-templed driver appears oblivious to us being in the car. Or perhaps he is simply tired: his thin body seems lost in his shirt and trousers and looks too thin to have any energy reserves. I wonder for how long he has been working today and whether he will fall asleep at the wheel. François is wide awake and laughs at everything, whether it is funny or not. I suspect he had been drinking before he joined us in the restaurant.
We pull up outside an entrance with well-built doormen in black suits and a queue of wannabes behind a thick red cord. As Cesar heads straight to the front of the line, I feel we ought to have arrived in a smart limousine rather than a yellow cab. I turn to look at Peter and François, hoping the young architect will be able to walk in a sufficiently convincing straight line to be allowed into the club. Cesar seems to know everyone in this city an
d a word from him is enough for us to be waved inside by the bouncers, guys over 1 metre 90 with boxers’ noses, coiled earpieces dangling from cauliflower ears, and all the charm of henchmen in a James Bond film. The cinematic theme continues inside with ultra-modern decor of shimmering metal and white leather, like something from a 1970s sci-fi movie. Everyone is tanned, beautiful, dripping in jewellery. I expect a photographer from a society magazine to appear any moment to take pictures of groups of fashionistas with toothpaste smiles, eager to get their faces into the right glossy publication so everyone will see how happy they are. As we push through the crowds, a party of girls are just vacating a couple of sofas, clambering to their feet on towering heels and picking up glittery designer clutch bags. We sit down, Peter and François on one sofa, Cesar and I opposite. My Lebanese friend waves a waiter across. We have to almost shout the order above the pounding oriental electro-pop. I think I hear François saying it is the first time he has been here. He looks around at the clientele, so many of them working hard to sparkle, to look their best. People have a short shelf-life in Dubai; perhaps it is the heat. A brunette in an expensive-looking grey mini-dress strides over to Cesar and bends down to kiss him, taking care not to spill her glass of white wine. He stands up and for a while they chat before she looks across at us and smiles a cold ‘Hello’ between glossed lips. I watch her index finger trace a path across his stomach, fuchsia nail varnish vivid against his white shirt. A tray of drinks arrives and she kisses Cesar goodbye before blending into the crowd. It is impossible for the four of us to hold a conversation above the music. I chat to Cesar next to me, now and then glancing across to the others where Peter is nodding and frowning while François is talking incessantly and giving the occasional Gallic shrug. I suspect he is going on about his lost job again and worrying about the future. The alcohol has done its work, first relaxing him, then bringing euphoria, before finally casting him adrift into melancholy. I ask myself what he will do if he cannot find a new position here soon. Cesar touches my arm, his fingers warm. I have not been listening to him. Apologising, I say I am tired. As he crosses his legs and leans towards me, the blue shoes catch my eye again. As if reading my mind, Cesar smiles and, asking me if I like them, taps my leg with his foot.
From Souk to Souk Page 19
