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Published: April 12th 2006
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Holy Day
People praying outside the mosque on holy day The most air conditioned city in the world tries really hard to convince visitors that this is a habitable part of the globe. One only has to walk out the doors of the airport into the sweltering 8 am heat to realize that this is a massive lie propagated by the obviously evil, Dubai Board of Tourism.
I came to Dubai with expectations of pristine buildings and streets, and lavish wealth. What I didn't expect as I rode the city bus towards Deira was the throngs of struggling immigrants, looking for a fortune that isn't there. Indian and Pakistani people make up just under 50% of the Dubai's growing population and provide the engine that drives this vertical monstrosity higher into the sky each year. They are the underpaid construction workers, the street cleaners and the kitchen staff. They sleep everywhere; on roof top mattresses, streets and in cramped apartments.
I sit on my backpack in the shadow of the Dubai central bus station and am approached by a man in uniform. In broken English Tariq introduces himself and insists that I stay with him at his house as in his eyes "we are like brothers". Astounded by this
act of generosity and not having the heart to say no, I tell him that I will call him at 1:30, after he is finished his shift driving the number 12 bus, and arrange to meet him later on. I would have loved to have trusted Tariq and later told the story of smoking sheesha into the wee hours with him and his mates. However the paranoid and ignorant North American in me feared the story might be one of me being beaten, robbed, tied up, gagged and carried around the streets like a float in the Ramadan parade (oh CNN, how you've turned me into a biggot).
I walk the streets around the Deira Souq aimlessly in search of a modest pension to rest my weary eyes; past carpet sellers and gold merchants, perfumeries and textile shops. The streets are busy. Covered muslim women with piercing eyes barely visible behind black veils, and scantily clad Thai girls whose desperate looks and torn fishnet stockings tell a much different story of female oppression.
I am immediately "befriended" by a man who makes it his duty to find me a place to stay. He takes me to three different
dives, before I finally give up and agree to stay at the third inn. My guide holds out his hand expecting gratuities. I shake the hand vigorously and walk up the stairs to my overpriced room...
Local residents of Regina know not to stay at the Plains Hotel and the Empire. Although both locations are blessed with advantages (a kickass biker bar, and the coldest off-sale south of the Arctic Circle), they are dens of ill repute. However, an unsuspecting Mennonite farmer from Davidson might stumble upon these hotels in his desperate search for a room during Agribition, and move the wife and two kids in for the night. After hearing the raucous sex going on in the next room, and finding dirty needles in the rusted bath tub, the man would spend the night near the door with his loaded 22 while his wife would cover the ears of the two young children, lest their virgin ears be corrupted by those awful sounds. The man would then proceed to check in to the 7 Oaks, the following night...
I was the unsuspecting Mennonite from Saskatchewan and the Al Arabia Hotel was my Empire. I look down at
City of Gold
A bad shot of the Gold market of Dubai the Semen stained sheets, I watched a massive beetle crawl slowly up the wall, and I read the hotel rules. Rule #7 makes it clear. "No outside guests allowed in rooms. Only hotel employees to accompany patrons to rooms." I was to spend the night in a brothel.
I lay down on the soiled mattress and within seconds am asleep. I am awoken by the call to worship from a near by mosque and decide not to waste my day. I head out into the streets. Its hot. I trek on to visit the gold souq, the largest gold market in the world. Immediately upon passing the gates, I am approached by throngs of street sellers offering me a plethora of rarities. "You want watch, bracelet, drink, weed..." As the men see that I am showing no interest, they become desperate and the goods on offer become more illicit, "Coke, H, E, tiger skin, ivory, conflict diamonds, bum bum?"... bum bum... I'm not entirely sure what that is, but I don't think that I want it from an overweight elderly Middle Eastern man. In Dubai, everything and anything you can imagine is available and has a price tag.
Finally a man approaches me and asks if I am hungry. I follow him a block or two to a tiny kitchen in a side street where he fires up the grill and cooks me a delicious beef curry for 7 Dirhams (about a pound). I eat the curry overlooking the Arabian Sea, watching fishing boats sail in and out of the harbour. I head back to my brothel where I spend the night drifting in and out of sleep, being awoken constantly by the sound of Eastern European women, accompanying their clients to their rooms.
The next morning I bus it to the Dubai Youth Hostel where the swimming pool welcomes me into its cool waters. I then head for Jumeira where I finally take a swim in the Arabian Sea. I lay on the beach burning my pasty white, awkwardly hairy chest and watch covered muslim women stare in disgust at British tourists in bikinis. In the distance stands the mighty Burj Arab Hotel, like an oasis on the edge of the dessert. I decide a pilgrimage to this spectacle is necessary. I walk and walk. I walk until I can walk no more. I look up to realize the hotel is no closer than than when I began. The drama queen in me begins to draw parallels between myself and a man dying of thirst, urged on by a mirage that promise refuge from the sun. Is the hotel really there? I find a gas station and fuel up on water and ketchup Pringles. I trek on. 14 km later I arrive at the hotel. Three Pakistani men approach me and insist that they get their pictures taken with me. Each takes turns shaking my hand in front of the camera. These men were clearly impressed with my awesomeness. The hotel was stunning. The cab ride back to the hostel was expensive.
I am sitting, waiting in the Sharzha airport departure lounge with 150 Russian prostitutes who are heading for Oman to renew their visas. I am watching a bizarre scene unfold before me. A small and extremely cute toddler is wondering around the lounge. She is picked up by one of the Russian women. The toddler is the child of a muslim women whose face is covered in a long black veil, and is clearly upset about the situation. The Russians are passing the child from one person to the next, bouncing the happy baby on their knees and giving the child countless hugs and kisses. I'm not sure how this one will turn out but if those women try to stuff that kid in their carry ons I will have to intervene. Dubai is a global meeting place, and in this tapestry of cultures and customs East and West clash like pink and red and toddlers suffocate inside European designed, Chinese constructed hand bags... Salam Alaykum.
(Sorry about the pictures, all Dubai pictures were eaten by this computer... promise better work in Oman)
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leonie
non-member comment
u allright mate?
before reading your journal i didn't have this point of view about Dubai!!! that's great to hear a story from a traveller like you!!! good luck for the rest of your trip! I'll have a look to your blog very often ;)