by Becky Wicks
For M&M.
I’ll never forget the good times.
Contents
Cover
An introduction to insanity …
Another suitcase in another hall …
Travelling at the speed of Dubai …
Wanted: One Bacardi with Mexican hat
Where everybody knows your name …
Arduous treks and torture …
Lunch break, in ten easy steps …
Car park wonderland …
Sheikh, rattle and roll …
When good girls get wet and wild …
The joys of being a woman …
Dodgy deals, desert drives and a Middle-Eastern marketing machine …
A Samsung fairytale
Day one at the Iransion …
Girls just wanna have brunch …
Moving on up …
Doing it for our country …
Musings on a sleepless night …
A new-found celebrity status …
Car-crash parties and the fleet-horse elite …
Swimming pools and breaking rules …
In the absence of Facebook …
Confessions of a nail-biter …
Freebies make the world go round …
An Iranian art attack …
Playing house …
When bad beer festivals get worse …
Tube strikes in London, you say?
The Rage …
The road to immediate doom …
Who lives in a house like this?
First comes brunch, then comes Iftar …
Romance and the Ritz …
Ramadan kareem …
Back to life, back to reality …
Sin for your supper …
The word on the street is CENSORED …
Parent planning …
The difficult detox …
Lions and champers and beers, oh my!
Age and the-party-that-never-was …
Ever seen a wheelchair float?
The kebab cake, and other surprises …
A weekend in South Africa …
A gay old time …
Dishonesty pays …
The hills are alive with the sound of silence …
Mulled whine …
An orphan’s Christmas …
A bad day …
Happy New Year …
You can stand under my umbrella …
What would you do with an island?
Bush on the beat …
The cleaning man who never was …
An Indian adventure …
Masters of The Universe …
Permission to launch …
Endings and beginnings …
Theatrical flashbacks …
Playing away by the rules …
The end of the affair …
A shock to the system …
The frog and the impossible flat hunt …
Renting and ranting …
Home sweet home, number three …
It’ll be all-white …
Selfish help …
Return of the Iranian inventor …
Going international …
The pirated treasures of Dubai …
Cabs, cats and little gifts on mats …
THE EGO has landed …
Risky business …
A truly shit time …
A fairytale called Yemen …
Not pet people …
Social networking …
A beachfront balls-up …
The sound of freedom …
Sex on the beach …
Catamarans and kisses …
To be or not to be in a relationship …
Paving the way to Pammy Land …
The Lebanese mafia …
One man and his empire …
The imaginary ability …
England, Dubai and the theory of pie …
Tales of a Middle Eastern earthquake …
It’s a decency thing …
The killer villa crisis …
The ethics of endings …
Even more sex on the beach …
Money and the monkeys …
Re-biting the Big Apple …
Fireworks …
Who wants to be a millionaire?
Spinach and the Nepalese concept of time …
The 22 degrees of Christmas …
Solidarity, songs and skyscrapers …
P.S. I hate you …
When two worlds collide …
Geese and guilt-free cookery …
Holes, moles and guillotines …
Coffin for two, please …
The boat that rocked …
Cat Woman going solo …
Flights of fancy …
The Twilight hour …
Another one bites the dust …
Waving Dubai-bye …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
An introduction to insanity …
On that first fateful day, walking along the edge of a six-lane motorway in 45-degree heat, sweat pouring from my ears, brow and belly button, I thought, maybe a few months, I’ll give it a few months. As the cabs refused to stop and the humid air soaked my leggings, making me look more like a disoriented drunken teen who’d wet her pants than a hip ex-Londoner making the journey back from work on foot, I stared up at a billboard featuring an ominous sheikh atop a mammoth white horse, reigning supreme over the roadway. Wiping my face on my sleeve and only narrowly missing a speeding Lamborghini, I thought to myself, just a few short months and then I’ll go home. I’ll shrug it all off as a mistake and beg for my old job (and dignity) back.
Two and a half years and a good few pairs of sodden leggings later, Dubai is as much a part of me now as the UK. I belong to Dubai, like a falcon does to an Emirati’s shoulder. And not just because I took out a bank loan the size of Milton Keynes and would have been imprisoned if I’d left without letting my loaded Arab boyfriend pay it back.
There have been a lot of changes since I first arrived on those dusty shores with nothing but a suitcase and a head full of tax-free dreams. As far as Dubai’s concerned, I’ve seen a rise and fall bigger than a boy band’s pop career and a good few front men struggling to keep a hold on what they once assumed was theirs in limitless supply. I guess living in Dubai was a bit like starring in a cartoon — you know, where everything’s exaggerated and the lines between fiction and reality are blurred. And as a prelude to what’s ahead, I’ll say in brief that I’ve become a different sort of character. This could be seen as a good or a bad thing, I suppose. Those who know me are still a bit baffled when I act surprised at having to clean my own bathroom, or remark that a house is not a home unless it has an outdoor swimming pool and a golden-crested marble bird perching on the ledge above the doorway. (I only said this once — don’t judge me.)
It’s not that I’ve changed that much … well, maybe I have, but the changes were so slow and unnoticeable in their unravelling that I surprise myself when I talk about how life once was, compared with how it is now — now that the bubble’s burst.
The stories that follow began as a collection of more than 600 diary entries and articles, written from 2007 to 2009, initially meant only for the eyes of my friends. So inspiring was this land, so strange and new … and so incredulous was I at being thrown right into the midst of this mounting chaos that pages and pages poured out of me sitting in my luxurious apartments, huddling over my laptop by the pool, or even swivelling in my seat at work, bored with writing bullshit just to keep Dubai’s PR force happy. What I really wanted to write was the truth. I promised I would put the highlights down in some proper form, when the time was right. I’d been rea
dy to leave for quite a while, if I’m honest, but possessing a bank loan the size of a small county rendered me pretty much stuck in what’s now, essentially I guess, a building site of unfinished business.
I couldn’t do this before … not a bloody chance! This has been a bit of a secret project, in spite of working in the media and itching to speak out to a wider group than my online circle. There’s been lots of stuff in the papers. I’ve read it all with interest and so have you, probably. We’ve all read of sex-on-the-beach scandals and stories of successful, spoilt expats who’ve since seen their dreams and relationships fall into ruin like many of the plans for Dubai’s seemingly flailing infrastructure. But there’s a lot more to it than that. There are things I’ve seen and done that must be mentioned, things that could have potentially, had I spoken of them within the strict confines of the city’s well-oiled PR machine, seen me stuck in a cell surrounded by criminals who’d committed other such unforgivable offences. These crimes might include falling pregnant outside marriage, drinking outside a bar instead of inside it, or accidentally bouncing a cheque.
An entire city has risen from the dust around me, along with a good few rungs of that hard-to-climb career ladder. I’ve learned to snowboard in the desert, spent New Year’s Eve on the branch of a manmade palm tree and celebrated my birthdays in a five-star blur of champagne luxury. I’ve lived on the landing of a mad Iranian inventor’s villa. I’ve been a celebrity gossip editor in a land where sex definitely does not sell and I’ve been thrust into the crazy world of advertising, alongside the Lebanese mafia. I’ve been whisked around the world by a rich Arab man, who proclaimed that he’d fallen so deeply in love with me that his world shattered every time I left his side, and I’ve lost more friends to the transient lifestyle than I’ve had the chance to add to Facebook.
Now that I think of it, in a place that until recently (with the opening of the Metro), couldn’t even run a decent public transport service, I’ve learned what it truly means to be indulged, spoilt and, ultimately, changed forever.
That said, let’s go back to the beginning.
Picture if you will, the summer of 2007 …
08/07
Another suitcase in another hall …
It’s almost 6 am and I’ve been awake for hours. My mouth tastes weird thanks to a Caesar salad dinner and I think it might be a chewing gum day. There are too many things in my head right now — mostly mundane things, like making sure my council tax is definitely cancelled and wondering whether it’s safe to pack the Marmite. I’ve heard funny things about Dubai customs. There are so many random objects you’re not allowed to take in, and far too many rules to abide by once you actually make it through, by the sounds of it. I shook all my clothes for traces of marijuana before Mum got here, of course, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m a liability.
Mum and Dad have kindly brought more bags to the flat so I can decide which one to take to Dubai. I’ve realised I’ve got way too many clothes. In spite of promising not to buy anything else since I landed the job, I bought a new dress from TopShop yesterday. But awwww. It’s my new ‘I’m off to glamorous Dubai so I really, really need a nice dress’ dress. It’s red.
I’m meeting Stacey at Heathrow once I’m all packed. Stacey and I have been hired by the same company to be ‘deputy travel editors’ at a publishing company. I met her for the first time the other day at a pub in Covent Garden, after another British employee already in Dubai, called Heidi, hooked us up on Facebook. We’re very excited about our new titles in Dubai and both agree that had we decided to stay in London, neither of us would be ‘deputy’ anythings. Stacey’s from Manchester and she’s just finished university, but even though I’m a few years older and possibly, maybe, a rung or two further up the career ladder than her, she’s skipped effortlessly to my level thanks to Dubai’s unprecedented need for decent English writers. Either that or I’m just rubbish for my age and recent positioning in the realm of employment … but you know what, at this point, I don’t really care.
It’s all happened so quickly. To think I met the head honcho of the publishing company just a month ago at the London Book Fair and now I’m sitting here surrounded by the remnants of my London life crammed into bin-bags. Stacey admitted the other day that she didn’t even know the job she was applying for was based in Dubai at first. She was just so happy to have a ‘deputy editor’ interview that she didn’t double-check the details when the call came through. She said she sat there before her potential employer, wondering why the strange blonde lady was talking so much about the Middle East!
Lucy’ll wake up soon. I’ll have to say goodbye to my flatmate of two years. I almost hope she doesn’t wake up, you know — I think I might cry. I’m not very good with goodbyes. I do believe my lovely workmates were slightly miffed that the floodgates didn’t open until my emotions had been inebriated with five shots of whisky last night. But on the whole I prefer to be happy about this decision. I like to stay strong. Because if I don’t, I’ll just think too much about what the hell I’m doing, moving to the Middle East.
Lucy reminded me the other day of how, about a year ago, she’d thought about applying for a job in Dubai and I’d scoffed at her; told her she’d be known as ‘Letterbox’ and would have to cover herself from head to toe in black if she did it. Clearly, I was a selfish moron who didn’t want her to leave me, but she didn’t go anyway. And now I’m going instead, whether I can fit my life into one of these bags or not.
13/06
Travelling at the speed of Dubai …
The first thing I’ll say is that the Internet here is soooooo bloody slow! It appears to be powered by plodding camels, even in the office. Some pages won’t load and some flash a giant BLOCKED message across the screen, so huge and sudden that I can practically feel an authority figure smacking me about the eyeballs in disgust. I’m not trying to look at anything naughty. I’m actually trying to log in to the blog I’ve been diligently keeping for two years. I don’t know if it’s my company or the country that’s rendering this impossible, but I’ll be very unimpressed if my blogging days are over just as my life gets vaguely exciting.
Other than that, my first week in Dubai is actually going relatively smoothly, bar an hour-long journey to work every day, ninety per cent of which is spent twiddling our thumbs in a cab stuck in traffic, and ten per cent of which is spent explaining to the driver where exactly it is he needs to go, even though we don’t quite know ourselves.
Stacey and I have discovered very quickly that the roads in Dubai change so frequently that many drivers have no idea whatsoever if the route they took yesterday will still be in existence the next day. Every trip is an adventure. There’s no GPS. Google Earth reveals from above what looks a little like a children’s sandcastle after it’s been battered by a loon with a pile of metal rods. From the ground it’s not much different.
It’s hot outside, too. And by hot I mean the kind of hot you might experience if you installed your household oven in your wardrobe, turned the heat up to 300 degrees and sat with your face in the open door, wearing a balaclava while drinking soup. It’s so humid that when Stacey and I step outside the office block, our glasses steam up instantly. We fumble about, praying we won’t get hit by a car, begging for a breeze. And when a breeze does actually blow, it’s like someone pointing a hairdryer at our faces.
We’re told that this is something that’ll get even worse, which is difficult to think about right now. Temperatures are set to soar into the high 40s and maybe even reach the 50s in July, August and September. I can’t help but feel like a bit of a sucker, if I’m honest. Clearly, I was too busy buying hot red dresses and worrying about which yeasty extracts to pack to actually check the weather in Dubai from London, but it appears we’ve been shuttled in at the worst possible time. And there I was, dressing like a Londoner in my leggings and slouch boots, ready for a day at the office as the fashionable import from the East End’s Mile End to the Middle East’s middle of … well, a
little hamlet called Karama. I’ve never sweated so much in my life.
Justifiably, people here seem to be afraid of going outside. We offered to attempt to walk to work on our first morning, which judging by the map should have taken roughly twenty minutes, but we were met with puzzled looks and a shaking of the head so severe I thought the lady downstairs at our hotel apartment block was going to have a seizure. ‘You don’t walk anywhere in Dubai’ was her warning. It seems she was right. Instead, you shut yourself in an air-conditioned car and sit in traffic for what feels like all eternity before literally turning the corner and getting out again. Occasionally, says Heidi, you’re stared at long and hard by the person in the car next to you, causing colossal paranoia and an urge to cry, until you realise it’s because you’re showing your knees under the dashboard.
The apartment in the hotel is nice — Stacey and I were given one each, but seeing as mine was three times the size of the flat I’ve just left behind with Lucy, we moved all our stuff into one so we wouldn’t get lonely. I’ve really never been the type to get homesick, but having one relatively close friend means everything at a time like this. Saying goodbye to Lucy was tough, as predicted. I’m not even sure when I’ll see her again, and even though she’s only a few hours away by time zone and we can chat in real time with the aid of modern technology (if any of it ever starts to work properly), this place couldn’t be more different. It doesn’t seem all that modern, either. I was expecting something rather glamorous and special. What little I’d heard about Dubai from other people before I got here was all extravagant and glitzy, but then, we haven’t been to many places yet. Perhaps Karama isn’t the real Dubai.
Everyone’s tanned here, though. Heidi met us at the hotel on our first day, when jetlagged and bleary we stood with our bags at our feet, looking out at the cab drivers inching in and out of the lanes outside trying desperately to move through stationary traffic. In the light of day, Heidi is the kind of russet brown, just verging on orange, that manages to look healthy in spite of a little voice in your head screaming Premature Ageing and Wrinkles!!! whenever you comment on the colour.