by Cash Peters
But hey, that's okay, I thought. It's the network's problem. Those guys were footing the bill, so what did I care, really? That's what expense accounts are for—right?
Er …
Shortly after, I discovered a letter. It was stuffed into the bottom of the same bag that the iPod came in, and explained in very clear legal terms that the room was being paid for by the network, but the incidentals most definitely weren't.
I don't fully remember, but I think my hands began shaking at this point.
Bottom line: that's the last time I ever let a friend of mine out of my sight. If I'd known Mandy was going to switch inadvertently from the free stuff to the stuff hotels make you pay through the nose for, believe me, I would have thought twice about inviting her up to my swanky pad in the first place. I'm serious.
The show premiered four weeks later. On my birthday, as a matter of fact, June 6. A coincidence everyone was quick to label a lucky omen.
It's hard to encapsulate in a single word the myriad feelings that surge through you when you first appear on TV in your very own series, but, after much thought, I can honestly say that “YIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEE!!!!” probably comes the closest.
Quick off the mark, The Thumb sent me a congratulatory note. In it, he went to the trouble of listing some other significant events that had taken place on the same date throughout history, which I thought was a wonderful gesture.
Were you aware that June 6 is Memorial Day in South Korea? I wasn't. Or that some people celebrate the Feast of Saint Norbert of Gennep on that day? Or that it marks a number of epic watersheds: the D-Day landings in Normandy (1944), the death of Robert F. Kennedy (1968), the launch of Soyuz 11 (1971), and Roosevelt's New Deal (1934)? Not to mention the birth of Tony Yeboah, Ada Kok, and James “Munky” Shaffer? (Just thinking aloud, but it's possible I may be the most famous person ever born on June 6. And I'm not famous at all!)
Then, at the very bottom, tagged onto these momentous events, was a personal note: “Cash, congratulations on the launch of this incredible endeavor!!”
He even called me at home as the initial episodes were about to air, very excited as always. “Did you get my gift?”
Oh boy. My own show and a gift, too!
“No,” I said, “I didn't. Is it a car?”
I'd read about networks handing out Porsches to stars as a thank-you for taking time out from their busy celebrity schedule to show up to work …
“No, it's not a car,” he replied, shocked.
… just not this network, evidently.
Still hopeful, in case he was kidding, I hurried downstairs to the front door and found, waiting for me on the step outside …
An envelope.
“Oh.”
Inside was a gift voucher. For four free massages at a spa in West Hollywood.
Hm. Okay.
Sweet gesture.
Please don't think I didn't appreciate it, because I did. Spas are lovely. I like spas.
And anyway, it's the thought that counts, right?
But…
Actually, there is no but. Spa treatments make a great gift.
It's just that…
A car would have been nicer, that's all I'm saying.
Now, let's move on and put this ugly scene behind us.
12
The Emir's New Clothes
In the beginning, when we first embarked on the series, our plan was to break new ground in reality television by being authentic, honest, and courageously laissez-faire. That is to say, we'd turn up unannounced in a place, mingle for real with the community, befriend interesting strangers, visit their homes, and generally improvise our way from pillar to post without a plan, letting the whole thing develop organically, the way life does, to see how it all worked out. Then at least we could say we were remaining true to our brief of being a genuine people show filled with knockabout spontaneity.
Unfortunately, by the time we reach Dubai, all of that has flown out the window.
The backbone premise, “guy arrives in strange culture with no money and scrounges meals and assistance off complete strangers” won't fly in the Middle East. In fact, the idea of knockabout spontaneity is not only frowned upon here, it can earn you a lengthy prison sentence.
“Dubai is a benign dictatorship,” our fixer, Nick, warns grimly at the hotel on the first day. A scruffy young Londoner with a baby face, he's freelanced on several TV shows out here as a producer and has been hired to help us negotiate this, the trickiest of cultures. “The country is ruled by Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum and the Maktoum family according to Islamic law, and what they say goes, mate.”
It wasn't always like that. At one time this region was run by a group of feudal clans. Back then, the A1 Maktoums were part of the Bani Yas clan. Then, in 1833, they broke away and took over Dubai, where they've been in charge ever since. They own it, they run it, it's theirs. If you don't like it, then take your ball and leave.
“Whatever happens,” the show's senior coordinator, Rick, told me before I left L.A., “watch what you do and say in Dubai. That means no innuendo. Don't touch or hug people. And most definitely no, repeat no, religious, risqué, or gay jokes of any kind—okay?”
No hugging or gay jokes? Jeez, that's a bit harsh.
Seems Islam has yet to embrace the fun, vivacious side of homosexuality. Despite Dubai's outward pretense to Western-style openness and freedom, the people are extremely uptight. It's certainly no Lesbos, that's for sure. Anyone flaunting the love that dare not speak its name could easily end up in prison, then deported.
In other news: Under Islamic law, if a man walks up to a woman he doesn't know, the way I frequently do, and starts talking to her without being invited, as I also frequently do, he can be jailed for a year, I'm told, which I'm not up for at all. In fact, you can be jailed in Muslim countries on a whim for almost anything: having sex out of wedlock, getting drunk, being a pothead, and all manner of other playful acts that we take for granted in our culture and that really don't count in the bigger scheme of things, but which these people take very seriously indeed. I heard of a man in Saudi Arabia, for instance, who left his wife after she was caught in front of the TV watching a program starring a male host. Merely seeing this guy on television was in itself considered adultery and sufficient grounds for divorce. In Iran, I hear, you can be flogged or stoned for having a copy of the Bible in your home and put on trial for calling your teddy bear Mohammed. In Dubai, a straight guy who was anally raped by a gang of closet homosexuals was instantly deemed to be homosexual himself and banged up in the slammer. Elsewhere, thieves may be punished by having their hands chopped off. Panhandling is illegal. Bums are thrown in jail, too. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It's all very eye-for-an-eye and gratuitously barbaric.
Luckily, Dubai has moved on a little these days. It's no longer considered quite such a haven of narrow-minded intolerance as other Islamic countries are. Still, you can't help worrying for your safety, and I'm taking no chances.
Having already put the fear of Allah up me, Nick has more. “I mean, I don't want to influence you editorially or anything, mate,”—meaning he does—“but there are certain things you shouldn't ask people.”
“Such as what?”
“About money and … well, certain other stuff,” he adds mysteriously.
Oh, okay. Well, thanks for clarifying.
“And when you write the script for the show, please only say nice things.”
“Why is that?”
He looks nervous. “Because if you don't, mate, they'll come after us.”
“Who will?”
“They'll find out who 'elped you, who made the arrangements, and they'll shut down our company.”
“Who will, Nick?”
Too scared to name names, he clams up.
“And anyway,” I persist, “why would they shut your company down for something I did? It doesn't make sense.”
As he's about to answer, a man wearing the traditional Arab whi
te robe—the dishdasha—and the white headdress—the gutra—saunters by with a laptop—asonyvaio—looking for a wireless connection. Nick stalls, waiting for him to pass, then two earnest blue eyes round on me. “My point is, mate,” he lowers his voice, “watch what you say or you'll get everyone into trouble.”
And Tasha agrees.
The three of us are huddled conspiratorially in fancy leather armchairs in the ultra-plush, oak-paneled lounge of a private club at our hotel, eating cake. The club is “members only,” reserved for elite guests—that is to say, those staying in the more expensive suites on the tenth floor and up. Sadly, we're booked into budget rooms on the ninth and below, so we don't qualify. However, reading the hotel brochure last night, I noticed in passing that the club offers afternoon tea each day in its lounge. Well, who doesn't love a spot of tea in the afternoon? It's a very British institution. More to the point—and here was its main appeal as far as I was concerned—the tea was free. So I swapped my jeans and T-shirt for a smart designer number and slacks to make me look less ninthfloorish, slid a little mousse into my hair, took the elevator up to the club, and defined myself as a member simply by walking in, quite brazenly grabbing a corner table and a plate of scones and refusing to leave until I'd eaten them all.
I also went to the trouble of putting the receptionist on notice that I was expecting guests for a business meeting, a piece of news she received with snake-eyed skepticism and a “Yes, sir” so chilly I was able to see my own breath for a moment.
Unfortunately, Tasha and Nick have blown my cover wide open by arriving in sweaty T-shirts and shorts. Tasha even put her old backpack on the table, in my private club! Totally letting the side down. We can be only minutes away from the receptionist calling security and having us all thrown in jail for five years. Anticipating this, I grab another couple of scones from the tray while I still have hands to hold them with.
“And there's something else,” Tasha says.
Nick brushes wisps of fair hair from his eyes, trying to figure out the most tactful way of framing it. “We've arranged for you to meet a very senior member of the government. 'E's major, mate. Close connections to the Maktoums. You're lucky to 'ave 'im on the show. It'll make for a great segment. Nice guy. Friendly, but…”
“But…” Tasha echoes ominously.
“But what?”
“… he's very high up, very important, and if you upset him, then …”
Before the threat can be fully fleshed out—though I'm sure it probably entails being arrested and thrown in prison for five years; call me psychic—Tasha chips in with a curt “Just don't upset him, okay?”
“Alrighty … and what exactly would I have to say to upset him?”
She stands up and makes to go. “Just don't.”
If you're wondering where Dubai is, it's at the eastern end of the Arabian Peninsula. And if you're wondering where that is, well, you could always buy an atlas—hm?
Basically, we're talking about the Middle East, but not the part where people slaughter each other daily for no good reason; rather, the relatively nice part of the Persian Gulf where the lifestyle, because they have the buffer of vast oil reserves and the high-minded good sense not to squander them on war or nuclear weapons, is peaceful, and steeped—steeped, mind—in five-star opulence. That's Dubai.
“Safest country in the world,” Nick trumpets.
Thousands of people agree with him and have set their sights on living and working here. Unfortunately, most arrived before Dubai was quite ready for them, and the city is struggling to keep pace.
“Why is it the safest?” I ask, as we crawl an inch at a time through bumper-to-bumper traffic along an unfinished four-lane highway en route to our first location, an unfinished tower block. “You mean there are no terrorist attacks here?”
He shakes his head.
“But why not? Surely, this whole place is one great big bull's-eye for Al Qaeda.”
Same way Las Vegas is. Stands to reason. If anywhere in the world has Great Satan written all over it, it's Vegas. Or it did, until Dubai came along, which will soon be bigger, glitzier, more lavish, and a whole lot satanier than Vegas could ever dream of.
“The earth has a new center,” a giant billboard screams at us from the roadside. And what extremist wouldn't welcome the chance to bomb the center of the earth?
Yet Nick remains adamant. “Won't 'appen, mate.”
“But why?”
For the second time this trip, he turns mysterious and lowers his voice, even though there's only me and the crew here.
“It's rumored that someone in the government is related to one of Bin Laden's cousins, and they've … y'know … done a deal, sort of thing. ‘We'll scratch your back, mate, and you don't bomb ours, okay?’ And that's what we think 'appened.”
“So … is it true?”
He shoots me an alarmed glance via the rearview mirror. Already said too much.
“Safest country in the world, mate.”
And the topic is quickly dropped.
By Nick, at least. Me, I'm nowhere near done yet.
Dubai nowadays is a modern marvel. That's how far it's come. Half a century ago there was almost nothing here, except for a modest fishing port renowned for its flourishing trade in precious pearl oysters. Everything else was just a very large patch of sand. One of seven similarly large patches of sand known as emirates, or Arab sheikhdoms, bordering the Persian Gulf.
For a while in the nineteenth century, the region was under threat of attack from the ever-expanding Ottoman Empire, centered in Constantinople (now Istanbul). Luckily, in 1873, the British came along and put their foot down (which was a shock: normally people only put their feet up on Ottomans), offering protection to the sheikhdoms and their trade routes. Until 1971, that is, when the Brits grew tired of daddying the Gulf region, with all its attendant troubles, and went home, throwing the Arabian Peninsula once again to the wolves. That's when the emirs, the shrewd rulers of the seven large patches of sand, decided to do something radical: they ganged together and formed a single country, called the United Arab Seven Large Patches of Sand, which was changed the very next morning, after the man who'd suggested such a stupid name was thrown in jail for five years, to the United Arab Emirates.
“So what's this, then?”
I'm standing on a hillock of freshly excavated soil before a jagged skyline of unfinished metal and glass towers stretching as far as the cynical eye can see.
“What you're looking at, mate, is what Dubai's all about,” Nick explains proudly.
“Half-assed construction projects?”
“No. Sheik Mohammed wants this city to 'ave the biggest and the best of everything. He wants to be a player and put it on the map, bringing in more and more people. See those condos over there? Every one of 'em's sold already.”
Shrouded in cranes, a dozen huge towers gnaw at the clouds like punched-in teeth. Most have their upper floors missing, though not for much longer. Buildings like these are shooting up all over town at record speeds—which hardly gives me confidence that they'll stay up, quite honestly—thanks to a reservoir of imported labor flooding in from the Indian subcontinent and willing to work for minimum wage. A rate of four dollars a day is not uncommon.
The guy behind the construction splurge was Dubai's forward-thinking ruler, Sheikh Maktoum bin Rashid al-Maktoum. In the 1970s he came up with a daring vision: to take this primitive Muslim country of fifteen hundred or so square miles and transform it into one of the premier free enterprise economies and tourist destinations in the world. Unhampered by cumbersome bureaucracy (being a dictator, Sheikh Mak was the bureaucracy), and tapping into substantial revenues he'd pulled in from oil, he began devising the infrastructure for a wondrous city of the future, then gathered a bunch of architects and engineers together, clapped his hands, and said, “Make it so!” exactly the way Aladdin did when he lived here.
But here's where the plan got to be really audacious: the city wouldn't be built piecem
eal, he resolved, the way the rest of us would do it, a little bit at a time to see how things go, because that could take forever. No, everything would be put up more or less simultaneously, at a total cost of around $400 billion.
Clap, clap. “Make it so!”
Well, you've never seen as much frenzied activity in all your life. Before long, there were more people building the city than actually living in it, 80 percent of them from overseas. And I don't know how many cranes there are in the world right now, but I do know, because Nick told me, that at any one time 25 percent of them are to be found in Dubai.
Anyway, by the time Sheikh Mak died in 2006, he'd performed a miracle, bringing this large patch of sand firmly into the twentieth century, exactly as he'd promised.
Unfortunately, by then it was the twenty-first century. So it fell to his younger brother, Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, who thankfully was also a visionary with deep, oil-lined pockets, to grab the baton and take the plan even further, expanding Dubai into a prime residential location, a thriving business center, and, someday, the number one tourist destination on the planet.
Agog at the ambition of it all, we retreat from the crushing heat to the safety of the van, and, with the AC cranked up to “January in Reykjavik,” set off into town along a wide, dusty, unfinished highway.
“This,” Nick says, leading us to a broad stretch of sand on the Gulf called Jumeirah Beach, “is an iconic building, the one that really put Dubai on the map.”
On the other side of a concrete wall we find the Burj Al Arab, the Tower of the Arabs, hogging the horizon to our left. The world's tallest hotel at the time, at 1,053 feet high, it was built to look like an old merchant sailing ship, called a dhow, and is sculpted out of glass and white-painted steel. Inside, it claims to have its own microclimate in the 590-foot atrium, plus a restaurant with a floor-to-ceiling aquarium, and even its own submarine. Not that I can confirm any of these things: leaning over a wall is about as close as we're allowed to get to it. According to Nick, a vigilant security detail guards the gate at all times, keeping riffraff like me from mingling with guests, in case it reminds them that poor people really do exist in the world and freaks them out.