by Cash Peters
Actually, he's agreeable enough. Certainly not the ogre he's been painted. Tasha and Nick needn't have panicked. I guess they were expecting a grizzly bear. In fact we got Yogi. The real reason everyone walks on eggshells around him, I quickly discover, is that he's the general manager of Dubai's most audacious project to date: the Palm Jumeira—you've probably seen reports; it's been all over the news—a splayed peninsula packed with villas, hotels, and shops, built on reclaimed land in the Gulf and shaped like an elegant palm tree. Constructed by fourteen thousand poor people to enable a few rich ones to enjoy an even better life than they have already, it includes marinas, beaches, cafés, lavish spas, a monorail, and an artificial reef for divers and wildlife, created, I read somewhere, by sinking fighter jets into the ocean. They're already calling the Palm the Eighth Wonder of the World. Which is a shame, because, the way things stand, this will push poor Angkor Wat down to ninth. That's bound to make somebody mad.
What's more, it turned out to be such an off-the-wall crazily marketable idea that Nakheel, the construction company (owner: Sheik Mo), built two even bigger ones farther along the coast: the Palm Deira and the Palm Jebel Ali. But then—then—guess what! Even as these were getting under way, Sheikh Mo, who I'm guessing never sleeps, hatched his greatest brainchild yet. This required another impressive model, which takes pride of place in the showroom, depicting a wondrous archipelago of three hundred manmade private islands individually fashioned into a map of the earth's continents and countries, and called The World.
Ooh, The World, I'm thinking—that's where I live!
There's even a video.
“Choose your island, choose your opportunity,” a narrator purrs to a soothing flute accompaniment.
As he speaks, a cartoon seaplane swoops down through computerized clouds to scuff the ocean waves, before rising over a CGI island shaped like a game preserve on the Serengeti. Each island represents a different country and features a range of enticing attractions, from computer-generated golf courses and castles to futuristic hotels that the cartoon guests inside seem to be enjoying enormously. It sure does look like a glamorous, carefree place to be, if you're a drawing.
“Architect your surroundings,” the narrator continues, misusing a noun. “Customize the way you live with beautifully designed interiors that reflect your individual style.” According to Hamza, the blobs of land on offer vary in price between $9 million and a very reasonable $45 million, “inviting a select few to build the ultimate escape.”
As well as corporations, it's hoped that the select few will include a smattering of high-profile celebs, envisioning a halcyon day not so far off when Donald Trump will open the curtains of the castle on his island one morning to find Oprah next door on her island grouting her patio; a time when Barbara Walters, perhaps having trouble starting the motor on her Jet Ski, will call Rupert Murdoch and the Olsen twins, who'll rush over immediately with tools to help her; when Dakota Fanning, piloting her helicopter to her home on Fanning Island, will wave to Reese Witherspoon playing volleyball down below, gamely taking on Ang Lee, Reba McEntire, and Celine Dion's husband, René Angélil; and as, elsewhere, 50 Cent rubs sunblock on three of the four Baldwin brothers, and members of the band Korn mischievously drain Tom Cruise's pool under cover of darkness, while Jerry Seinfeld and Marvin Hamlisch stand by acting as lookouts.
That's how it's going to be on The World. Fun, peaceful, harmonious. Everybody pulling together and getting along. The exact opposite of the real thing, basically.
Unfortunately, the bigger The World development grows, the less it seems to resemble the model. To my eyes, at least. Not to jump the gun here, because these are early days, but I've seen an aerial photograph of it and to me it looks like an X-ray of somebody's gallstones. The continents aren't as I remember them at all. They've become distorted and twisted out of shape, as though the builders couldn't quite remember where everything went, so they just stuck islands in wherever there was a space and hoped for the best. Things may yet turn out fine, of course. Sheikh Mo doesn't settle for second best. Though at the time of writing, instead of mirroring the layout of the earth's most prominent landmasses, The World resembles two grown-up yaks and a baby yak, grazing.
Doesn't matter, though. By some commercial miracle I don't understand, the moment villas or condos or islands go on sale in any of these ocean developments, they're snapped up without a second thought by foreign investors. Why is that?
“Because we're selling you a piece of Dubai,” Hamza explains, showing me a scale model, which is so beautiful and intricately made that I'd be happy just to live in that! “Many people want to be here,” he says, and goes on to list the reasons: “Number one, it's tax free. You don't pay any taxes. We don't know how to spell ‘tax’ here.”
Really? “It's only three letters,” I reply, stopping short of actually elbowing him in the ribs. “You'd think you'd be able to manage that.”
Grinning, but patently unamused, he continues. “Number two: Good weather. It doesn't rain. Number three: It's safe …”
Ah, yes, safety. I've been meaning to ask someone about that.
But why is it safe, Hamza, hm? In a dangerous part of the world such as this, one that's never far from the brink of war, where innocent people are being blown to bits by rebel insurgents on all other fronts, what's the deal here? How come Dubai gets off scot-free? Riddle me that.
Even as I'm figuring out how to couch this key question in less inflammatory terms that won't have him calling for armed guards, I sense a certain frisson ripple through the crew. Can almost hear them muttering under their breath, “Please, no, don't say it.” Tasha in particular. “Please!!!”
But is it right for me to hold back?
God knows, I'm no journalist. Quite the reverse. My take on a story is not only highly subjective, but also—and this is what makes me unique as a reporter, I think—it rarely coincides with anyone else's. It's not that I lie, exactly; there'd be no point. I just think my memory's shaky, that's all. Less of a storage system and more of a garbage chute: facts disappear into it and they're never seen again. Whenever I've worked in newsrooms in the past—CNN being a good example (I lasted just one day before I was canned)—I've made a point of telling my boss right at the start, “Please, please don't regard me as one of your journalists. Indeed, if you're looking for hard news, I'd go to the Brothers Grimm before I'd ever come to me.” For these reasons and more, I don't seek out facts. I don't investigate. I don't ask the tough questions. Not as a rule.
However, maybe this needs to be the exception. Obviously, if the rumor Nick heard is true and a deal has at some point been made with Al Qaeda, and especially if I could get this man to admit to such a thing on-camera, I mean—jeez, this interview would be TV Gold. And not the fake sort of TV Gold either, the sort you get on a basic cable adventure show whose host eats cabbage lasagna with soil and pubic hairs in it and wins an Emmy. No, the sort that makes news bulletins worldwide. On real TV.
“Oh, for goodness' sake, just ask him!” I tell myself. “Go on. What harm can it do?”
And I have my mouth open, ready to take the plunge, when at the last minute I glimpse Jay and Nick standing off-camera. Jay's staring at me sternly, while Nick—well, he gives a little flinch. And it's that, the flinch, that kills it. Because if I step out of line, there's only one person who'll suffer. Not us—we'll just be expelled from the country. It's Nick and his company that'll bear the brunt. And I'm sorry, but I can't do that. He's such a great guy. I want him and his wife to be happy and free, safe and prosperous. In other words, I want them to move to New York as soon as possible.
So, despite an overwhelming urge to ask the question, the only one that really matters, I'm forced reluctantly to let it go, and allow the PR dice to fall where they may.
“Number four,” Hamza continues, unaware of my internal debate, “it's affordable. And number five, you get the best standard of living in the world. So you get everything you want in a safe environment…�
��
And so on, and so on, and so on.
Disappointed? You have no idea.
1 One billion square feet of attractions, including a real full-sized snow dome and a “City of Wonders” featuring re-creations of the Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Giza, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which will be better than the originals because they'll be new. And at least one of them probably won't lean over, the way the old one does.
13
First Hint of a Problem
“So—did you hear?”
It was one of Fat Kid's ditzier hobbit underlings on the phone, squeaking like a chew toy.
“Hear what?”
“About the New York Times.”
These were exhilarating days at the office. In my absence, things had been going particularly well. The place was grinding out shows like a well-maintained turbine, everyone was happy with them, audiences were starting to find us and watch regularly, and our viewing numbers were up. The Thumb was on top of the world; he couldn't have been happier. Basically, everything was sunny and wonderful. Which, as you know, is usually when life hits you with a curveball and knocks you right off your feet.
“What about the New York Times?”
Quite unexpectedly, a review of the show had appeared in the TV column.
“I'll fax it to you right away.”
“Sure, take your time, there's no rush,” I said, trying to sound cool, like I had a thousand things I'd rather do than read an article about myself in the number one newspaper in the country. I was in bed at the time, catching up on three months’ lost sleep, but leaped out from under the sheets and flung myself down the stairs three at a time to stand by the fax machine. Gimme gimme gimme.
“Mr. Peters's series, …”
I read while it was still peeling out of the paper-feeder,
which began in June, is described as a series of visits to unusual destinations where he is deposited with no money and no resources and is forced to fend for himself. It's a perfectly pleasant little show.…
A-ha!
… as long as you accept immediately that it has nothing to do with its own premise.
Wha???
I reread the article several times, struggling to squeeze at least some goodwill out of it. But all I could find was: “A perfectly pleasant little show.” Hmm. That's sort of complimentary, isn't it? If you isolate it and take great care not to read the rest.
The critic had given over much of her allotted column inches to one of our early episodes, where I was in Romania looking for the castle of Vlad the Impaler, the fifteenth-century warlord on whom Bram Stoker later based his Dracula character. I thought it was a really good show, actually. One of our better ones. And so did everyone at the office. Evidently, we were all wrong.
Mind you, as I said earlier, this had been my biggest fear. Ever since Vanuatu, in fact. To succeed, the show needed to fly under the radar, by attracting mainly the Dimwit Demographic (incorporating ADD sufferers and the easily pleased), not—I stress, not—intelligent, analytical, and cultured people like the TV critic for the New York Times, who were bound to start asking difficult questions and pulling the premise apart.
One of my close friends is a professor of medieval studies. She'd watched the show and enjoyed it, she told me, before going on to nitpick at the concept the way only an academic can. “It's just not believable,” she kept saying. “If you have a camera crew with you, you're not marooned, are you?”
“Well, no, not strictly, but…”
“Of course people are going to give you food and a bed—they're being filmed.”
“Not necessarily. Some of them say no to me. In Greece, for example, the lesbians wouldn't let me stay in their hotel room, so I ended up sleeping on a bench.”
“But did you really sleep on the bench, or was it just for the cameras?”
“Er …”
“Precisely. It's. Just. Not. Believable.” This is how she speaks when she's stressing a point, in one-word sentences.
“But we're not making a survival show,” I pleaded for the fifty-thousandth time. “It's entertainment.”
“I don't care,” my friend insisted. “You're claiming you're all washed up in these places, but you're not. You. Need. To. Change. The premise. Or the title. Or something.”
Damn.
And that wasn't all. It was about now that I started receiving e-mails from curious viewers.
Hi,
I was wondering, how long does it take to film one of the shows?
You're supposedly in the location for a day and a half, correct?
But how long do you really stay there?
And those people that you meet on the streets … do you really meet them and they show you around and let you stay in their homes? Or are they picked out beforehand by someone else that works for the show?
—MARGARET
Mr. Peters,
I watch your show with interest.
One thing I would like to know. When you sleep in people's homes … do you stay there for the whole night or do you leave when the cameras leave?
—Lisa, Connecticut
You see?? There you go, Lisa, thinking too much! Asking too many questions.
Does nobody take anything on trust any more?
These initial grunts of incredulity didn't die down, either; they grew louder and wouldn't stop, signaling that our balance sheet of credibility on this show had slipped into the red, as viewers, not content to still their minds and just enjoy the series for what it was, continued to employ a near-forensic dedication to detail, analyzing my every move. The more they saw the Bewilderbeest stumble across the breadth of whole islands on foot in a single day; or, though he didn't speak the native language, run quite accidentally into a translator who did; or walk up to a total stranger and conveniently be offered food or free lodging for the night with the bare minimum of discussion or negotiation, the more they began scratching their heads, thinking, “Hang on a minute. That can't be right, can it?” And nobody more so, evidently, than the critic of the New York Times, who in her review went on to apply the unerring scalpel of her wit to the “reality” aspect of our reality show, suggesting that everywhere the host went on location, everything he did, and everyone he met, seemed to be set up.
When Mr. Peters visited Deadwood, South Dakota, the episode felt like a promotional film from the local board of tourism. He had no problem getting free food and drinks from people who, in return, had their faces and their establishments on camera.
Oh Lord.
Hadn't I been saying this all along? I said this very thing a thousand times. I did.
“A better title for the series,” she concluded in the final paragraph of her review, raising her feisty scorpion tail for one last fatal jab, “might be Cash Peters: Comped.”
Ouch.
14
Mutiny
Gabble gabble gabble gabble …
I've got my ear pressed to the door, listening to a commotion in the corridor.
Must be about fifty tourists out there, bantering loudly in a language I don't understand. Hauling trunks and squeaky cases on wheels along the passageway their little feet scurry in and out of rooms, not in orderly fashion, but frenziedly like geese being shot at, as the jackhammer bang of each door reverberates through the walls, rattling the light fixtures.
Gabble gabble gabble gabble gabble.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang.
Gabble gabble.
Bang bang bang bang.
I haven't unpacked my bags yet, but to be honest, this hellish din has convinced me there's no point. I vote we call time on this crap hole right away.
Usually, the crew leads the charge on the issue of hotels. Director Mark especially. Hailing from solid middle-class stock, he's used to a high level of comfort, one that won't be compromised without a fight. However, on this occasion he's not with us, so it falls to me to get the ball rolling.
“It's a horrible hotel,” I grumble to Tasha in the lobby. “So
run-down.”
Apparently, it was a Sheraton at one time. If so, I can see why they sold it. Probably in a hurry, too, fearing it might collapse at any moment.
“But it's going to be such a hassle moving all our gear out,” Jay groans, adjusting his sciatic leg and wincing. Poor guy's still in agony. How he continues on I don't know. I'd have quit weeks ago. “Plus,” he throws in for luck, “I'm not sure if I have the authorization to take us someplace better, that's the problem.”
“But we can't stay in a dump. We need rest, we need good facilities.”
He doesn't disagree.
“Of course …” After a moment's consideration, his eyes turn to hot coals of mischief. “… if the host insists that he can't possibly stay in this environment, then we'd have to do something about it.”
“We would?”
Oh my God, we would!
I keep forgetting: it's my show. I have the power to kick up a stink and make outrageous demands, a privilege I've been ridiculously slow to abuse thus far.
“Great. Then it's a done deal.” And I issue a “clap, clap, make it so” of my own. Remarkably, it seems to work miracles, not only in Dubai, but in any place where people enjoy being ordered around by tyrants, because Tasha runs off to make arrangements.
“Where's Willy? Willy!”
Willy's our fixer here in Morocco. A shifty, grotesque little fat man with thick wet lips and a brutish swagger, who's as wide as he is tall. While Tasha's hammering out the accommodation problem with him in a corner, he shrugs several times and drags a chunky hand down across his round face.
“The host can't possibly stay here,” Tasha's insisting.
At this, Willy scowls. “Oh? And this host you speak of,” he says, “it is who?”
She points, and a pair of wounded eyes swivels in my direction. Eyes that could tear the still-beating heart from a man's chest.