Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (6 page)

The atmosphere inside was electric. Sexy young
models sipped exotic cocktails while they danced provocatively to the beats
spun by the DJs. Hani had already reserved a prime table for us next to the balcony
with bean bags and oversized loungers. We introduced ourselves to a group of
tanned European girls drinking from champagne flutes at the table next to us,
and we smoked more
shisha
and danced to the music, which had the entire
crowd under its spell. The vibe was as thrilling as any night spot in Ibiza or
Miami and everybody here felt alive.

But as midnight struck and the party at 360 was
approaching its peak, Hani decided it was time to move on. Once again, we
jumped into his party-mobile and headed to the next hotspot. 

‘Hani, it’s getting kind of late,’ I shouted
over the pumping stereo. ‘It’s been a great evening, but perhaps I should head
back to the hotel, I have work very early tomorrow.’

‘Nonsense,’ he interrupted. ‘We are only just
getting started, my man. You haven’t seen anything yet!’

‘Come on, Adam,’ added Nawal. ‘It’s your first
night out in Dubai. Relax and enjoy yourself. Work will always be waiting for
you.’

I decided that any attempt to disagree would be
futile, and I was secretly quite excited by what the night still had in store.
I sat back, shut my mouth and went with the flow, trying not to think about the
sleep-deprived day that surely lay ahead.

Hidden deep in the Dubai Marine Beach Club
Hotel on the Jumeirah Beach Road was The Boudoir. In the early evening it was a
chic restaurant serving the finest French food in Dubai, but as the clock
struck midnight the tables were promptly cleared away and it was transformed
into one of the hottest nightclubs in the world. Again, Hani had reserved a
table for us directly on the dance floor, so we didn’t have any difficulty
getting past the large and uninviting doormen.

Inside, The Boudoir looked like a high-class
Parisian brothel, boasting a gothic ambience of enormous crystal chandeliers,
giant drapes and opulent red-suede sofas. Stunning fashionistas danced on the
table tops while groups of muscular men drank from two bottles of champagne at
a time. There were beautiful women everywhere: at the bar, in the DJ booth and
on the tables. Hani ordered a giant bottle of vodka for our table and moments
later, two muscle-bound barmen brought it to us on their shoulders like the
entrance of Cleopatra into Rome. They laid it on our table while the club
watched on in awe. Hani jumped onto the table and held the huge bottle above
his head to the roar of the crowd. He then proceeded to pour its contents over
the girls below him, before taking a large swig himself.

I don’t remember much of what happened after
that. The rest of the night was a bit of a blurry haze. But I was certain it
was one of the best nights of my life.

The sun was already rising when the taxi
dropped me back at the Emirates Towers. As I stumbled into the lobby, my ears
were still ringing and my sight was blurry. Despite having to get to the office
in less than three hours, I was too pumped up to sleep, so I decided to sit in
the lobby for a while before going up to my room. By day the chic lobby lounge
would be bustling with businessmen and executives, power lunching and shaking
hands on million-dirham deals. But at this hour the deal makers were replaced
by exotic women of various nationalities, all sitting mysteriously alone. In my
innocent naivety I assumed they were hotel guests who were suffering from a bad
case of insomnia like me. But I had a suspicion that there was something more
to this peculiar scenario, and that the Emirates Towers lobby was living up to
its reputation as a premier ‘business hotel’, although the nature of this
business was somewhat more sinister.

I eventually headed back to my room, and after
an hour of channel surfing through old Arabic movies and American shopping
networks, I decided to call it a night. As I was scrambling through my suitcase
for my pyjamas, I found a scrap of paper under some socks with a phone number
on it. I suddenly remembered that a former colleague at work back in London had
given me his brother Jerome’s number and told me to get in touch. Jerome had
moved to Dubai a few months before me, and so he could be a good contact.
Oblivious to the time, I decided to call him there and then.

The phone rang continuously for over a minute
without a reply, until finally a gruff voice answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Erm, hi, is this Jerome?

‘Yeah, who is this?’

‘Hi, Jerome. I’m Adam, a friend of your brother’s
from London. He asked me to call you when I arrived in Dubai. He said you would
be expecting my call.’

There was a long pause followed by a female
voice giggling in the background. 

‘Oh yeah, he mentioned you. How you doing?’
There was yet more commotion and I began to feel like I was disturbing
something. ‘Listen, I’m in bed at the moment. It’s been a heavy night, man, had
a couple of drinks, you know how it is.’ I glanced at my clock and I suddenly
felt quite embarrassed. ‘Let’s meet up tomorrow evening at the Shangri La
hotel. A few of the guys from work are getting together for some drinks. Let’s
say nine in the lobby. Is that cool?’

‘Erm, yeah, sounds good,’ I replied sheepishly.
‘And sorry for calling so late, I mean early.’

‘Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.’

I lay back in bed and thought about the night’s
events. Hani had opened my eyes to the real Dubai and I finally saw what
Cameron had tried to tell me back in London. Every doubt I had previously about
my decision to move here disappeared in an instant and I felt a sudden burst of
excitement rush through my veins. There was something utterly electric about
this young city. It was bustling, energetic and alive, and I was more
determined than ever to make my mark.

All I needed now was a plan.

There is certainly an expatriate type. To be willing to
leave behind home comforts and family ties for a new life in a foreign country
is not for everybody. It calls for admirable character traits like an ardent
sense of adventure, an outgoing nature and a keen ability to make new friends.
But there is often a darker, almost sinister side to the expat persona. In the
insatiable pursuit of tax exemption and endless sunshine, many expats turn into
obnoxious versions of their former ‘indigenous’ selves. They tend to drink and
misbehave, fuelled by greater disposable incomes and a false air of importance.
Blinded by delusions of grandeur, many transform into full-blown egomaniacs,
showing little regard for their host country’s customs and etiquettes without an
ounce of shame.

From 2002, over 120,000 British expats came to
Dubai in pursuit of sun, sea, sand and tax-free cash. Many were serial property
investors looking to recycle their cash in the ‘next big thing’. Others were tax
evaders, VAT fraudsters and money launderers wanting to clean their money and
their reputations. Most were undervalued middle-class professionals trying to
revamp their flagging careers and upgrade their lifestyles in a new untapped and
skill deficient market.

Lured by generous tax-free packages of inflated
salaries, housing allowances and company cars, these Brits lived wonderfully
indulgent lifestyles with an active social calendar of glamorous brunches,
dinner parties, BBQs, nightclubs and beach clubs. They lived in newly built
apartments and villas in exclusive gated communities, kept a housemaid and a
chef, drove a gas-guzzling 4x4, and dined at the restaurants of the globe’s
finest chefs. They played golf on world-class courses and shopped in the most
luxurious malls on the planet. Life was dynamic and exciting and the sun shone
every day of the year. It was a far cry from the drudgery of city life in
London, Birmingham or Manchester. In Dubai, the Brits found themselves at the
top of the social food chain based on the colour of their skin and their
passports, and they lived like royalty.

This expat influx was not new. Western workers
had been relocating to the Middle East since the early 1970s on short-term
contracts to meet huge skill shortages, particularly in the booming oil and gas
and construction industries. Back then a position in Saudi, Kuwait or Abu Dhabi
was considered a hardship post; a sacrifice made by the employee for his
company in return for a generous salary and benefits package. But there was
nothing ‘hard’ about living in new Dubai. The desert had become a playground
for wealthy expats to enjoy every excess and vice they could fathom. Ten years
ago a contract in the Gulf was an opportunity to save for retirement; today
expats were piling up on credit cards to supplement their overblown salaries and
fund an extravagant and indulgent lifestyle. With the added opportunity to own
their properties and invest in the booming real estate market, the Gulf was no
longer just a temporary stopgap for expats, but somewhere to place roots and
build a future.

Every outrageous whim and desire of Dubai’s
affluent Western community was met by an army of foreign migrant workers from
India, Pakistan and the Philippines, who formed an often invisible blue-collar
underclass of helpers and servants. They worked inhumane hours bagging
groceries, pumping petrol and running errands for measly wages to support their
own poverty-stricken families back home. They were nervously attentive and
unreservedly committed to please, driven by an ever-looming fear of upsetting
their fickle overlords and, worse still, being replaced.

When they were not stuck in the office, on a
building site or in an endless traffic jam, the preferred citadels of
entertainment of the Western expat were the city’s grand hotels. Each of them
featured an eclectic selection of fine-dining restaurants, fully licensed bars
and poolside
shisha
lounges where the social elite would flock after
work and at weekends to meet, drink and be seen. The luxury beach hotels of
Jumeirah featured pool bars, cocktail waiters and afternoon BBQs, while sun-starved
tourists roasted for hours under the scorching desert sun. And as night fell
over the desert, the hotels hosted exotic themed events offering indulgent buffets,
wine tasting and live entertainment, attracting expats in their hordes to eat,
drink, and hobnob late into the night.

But the undisputed weekly highlight of the
discerning Dubai expat’s social calendar was the infamous Friday brunch.
Against the echoes of the Muslim call to prayer on the holiest day of the
Islamic week, the brunch became a weekly ritual of unbridled indulgence as hung-over
Europeans, Americans and Australians came in their masses for a day of
gluttonous excess. Copious quantities of food from every major cuisine were
brazenly displayed to catch the appetite of the insatiable diner, and for a set
price one could sample the best of Chinese, Indian, Italian, Mexican, Arabic,
French and English cooking in a mass gastronomical orgy.

And with the food came champagne by the bottle
and beer by the jug. It was no surprise that things often turned rowdy, and a
few overindulgent foreigners had to be forcibly removed on the orders of the
nervous hotel management. Despite their best efforts to contain the revelry,
sometimes the unruly expatriates, fuelled by a deadly cocktail of booze, food
and sunshine, were unleashed onto the city outside. Well-publicised incidents
of abuse of the locals and public displays of excessive affection were
unfortunate reminders that despite the city’s best efforts to segregate
opposing worlds, there was an ever-present risk of two cultures colliding with
disastrous consequences

***

After work the next day, I jumped into a taxi to the
Shangri La hotel and waited for Jerome in the lobby as we had agreed. I didn’t
have a clue what he looked like, but I assumed, perhaps naively, that he would resemble
his brother, so I was confident I would be able to pick him out. I took a seat
on a large beige sofa and scanned the lobby. It was the most impressive I had
seen so far, with a three-tiered atrium of restaurants and bars overlooking a giant
marble floor. Above the revolving doors hung an imposing giant tapestry of red,
brown and beige made entirely out of glass beads. The lobby was trendier than
the business-like Emirates Towers, with a younger and more fashionable
clientele of Emiratis and foreigners sitting around smoking cigarillos while
they browsed on their laptops or chatted away on their state-of-the-art mobile
devices.

I felt a hand grip my shoulder from behind. ‘What’s
up, matey?’ I turned around to see two piercing green eyes staring directly
into mine.

‘Jerome?’

‘Yep, that’s me,’ he replied, in a deep and raspy
British accent. ‘Good to meet you finally.’

I stood up to shake his hand. He was dressed in
a tailored navy suit and crisp white shirt that fit his athletic physique
perfectly. He was not very tall, but his chiselled features made up for what he
lacked in height. ‘It’s great to meet you too. How did you know it was me?’

‘Simple, my brother told me to watch out for a
good-looking, well-dressed guy who looks like an Arab.’

‘Ha-ha, I’m flattered, but that could be
anybody in this city.’

‘Yes, but you’re the only one here who still
looks impressed by the big shiny buildings. It’s an instant giveaway!’

I smiled sheepishly. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Yep, afraid so,’ said Jerome with a cheeky
grin.

‘By the way, Jerome, I want to apologise for
calling you so late last night.’

‘Hey, don’t worry about it,’ he interrupted. ‘I
think I got a pretty good idea what you were up to at that hour, you rascal!’ I
gathered what he was implying and I played along with a wink. ‘Listen, come
over and join me and my colleagues. We’re having a world wine- and cheese-tasting
night.’

‘Sounds good, lead the way!’

I remembered Jerome’s brother had told me that
he worked for a small, London-based recruitment company in Dubai called
Manning-Clarkson. The firm had seen the upcoming opportunity in the Emirate
early and had set up a regional office two years ago, before the competitors
had arrived. With first-mover advantage, Manning-Clarkson was perfectly placed
to take advantage of the massive recruitment surge and business was booming. To
capitalise on the demand, the firm had transferred half its London staff to the
Emirate on attractive packages; as a top performer, Jerome had been one of the
first to make the move.

I followed him through the lobby and past a
giant arrangement of cheeses from France, Belgium, America, Argentina and
Australia. They were meticulously arranged and each block was individually
labelled with a little flag notifying its country of origin. In the centre of
the grand display was a swan with open wings carved from a single block of
cheese. It was impressive, except that the horrendous odour was now spreading
relentlessly throughout the lobby. As we approached Jerome’s table, he let rip
a piercing wolf-whistle, which startled everybody within a hundred metres.

‘Everybody, your attention please! This is
Adam, a friend from the UK. He is new to Dubai, so I want everyone to make him
feel at home.’

His introduction was met with a reassuring roar
of approval from the table, which I noticed was littered with empty wine
glasses, bottles and plates still piled with cheese. I went around introducing
myself to everybody one by one. They were an interesting mix of young and
middle-aged Brits, all with beaming wide smiles and glowing red like overcooked
lobsters. Most of them were clearly rather tipsy, as they slurred their names
and ‘nice to meet you’s.

‘Okay, buddy, I’m going to leave you in the
hands of Jamie here, ’cos I’m sitting at the other end. Don’t worry, he doesn’t
bite. Just keep an eye on your private parts. He’s a bit unpredictable.’

‘You rascal!’ screamed the blond-haired,
freckled man opposite me, who I gathered was Jamie. ‘You didn’t complain too
much in the toilets this afternoon, Jerome.’

‘No, Jamie, I think you’re mistaking me for
your mum.’

‘Bastard!’ replied Jamie in defeat. Jerome
scuttled off to his seat, leaving me in the hands of his potential rapist
friend. ‘Your mate Jerome can be a right fucker sometimes. But he’s still a
legend,’ said Jamie incoherently. ‘So you recently moved here?’

‘Yes, just this week,’ I replied.

‘You’re gonna freaking love this city, mate!
Coming here was the best decision I ever made. It’s quality!’ He guzzled down
another glass of wine.

‘Thanks, that’s very reassuring. So what
brought you to Dubai, Jamie?’

‘Sun, booze and cash! Back home my career
wasn’t really going anywhere. The money was rubbish, I had no prospects and the
weather was shit. Life was a bit grim, to say the least. But out here I’m
making more money in a month than I would probably have made in a year in
England, and it’s all tax free! I play golf every weekend and I’m out drinking
almost every night. What more could I possibly want?’

‘Well, then it sounds to me you’re not working
hard enough!’ interrupted an older, overweight ginger-haired man sitting to my
left in a strong Yorkshire accent. ‘I’m Colin, by the way.’

‘Colin’s my boss, so I should probably watch
what I say,’ whispered Jamie.

‘Damn right, Jamie. We wouldn’t want you losing
your job, now. How would you pay for that Jeep Cherokee you just bought?’ Colin
laughed heartily.

‘Okay boss, understood,’ replied Jamie and
saluted his superior.

‘I gather from your accent that you’re from the
north of England, Colin,’ I said.

‘Yep, I’m from Leeds, mate. It’s a fucking
world away from this place!’

‘Colin just got divorced,’ interrupted Jamie in
an attempt to get his own back.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that Colin,’ I said,
genuinely.

‘Don’t be! It was the best thing that ever
happened to me. I sent the old bag packing and now I can take my pick of a new
girlfriend every night. God bless this city!’

‘Oh, so it didn’t work out?’

‘Mate, I was an idiot! When you come to work in
a place like Dubai you don’t come with baggage. I got married when I was a
hopeless nobody in a dead-end job in Leeds. Life wasn’t going too far, so I
thought, why not try Dubai? Since giving her the shove, I’m driving a brand new
BMW and shagging every night. Life couldn’t be better.’ He exploded in a fit of
laughter.

‘Oh, Colin, you are so fun-unny...’ said a
large blonde woman in a flowery frock and glasses who was sitting next to him
and listening attentively.

‘Fun-unny? What the fuck is fun-unny, you drunken
cow?’ Colin pointed at a random bottle of wine and beckoned the waiter. ‘Oi, we
need another bottle of this stuff, pronto!’

The young Indian waiter nervously scuttled away
and did as he was told. He returned in a flash, but as he showed the label to
Colin before pouring, Colin didn’t look pleased. 

‘Hang on, hang on. This is not what I fucking
ordered!’ The poor waiter froze with fear. ‘I ordered a bottle of this one
here!’ Colin pointed at a similar bottle on the table, which I noticed was
different to the one he had originally indicated.

‘Sir, I am very sorry,’ the waiter replied
nervously.

‘This is not good enough. I think I need to
speak to your manager,’ continued Colin remorselessly.

‘No sir, please! I will get the correct bottle
now!’ There was a desperate plea in the waiter’s voice that Colin callously
ignored. I felt bad for the poor guy.

‘Call your manager over right away!’ screamed
Colin. It seemed that the jolly northerner I had met moments ago had turned
into a sociopathic manic.

‘It won’t be necessary to speak to the manager,’
I interjected. ‘Please, just get us the correct bottle.’ Colin stared at me
with surprise, while the waiter’s eyes lit up with the appreciation of a slave
pardoned from execution.