Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (9 page)

‘Yes, exactly!’

‘I grapple with it every day. We are a bit of a
mystery to the Emiratis. We’re not white Western guys, but we speak with their
accents and are just as educated. So there’s a dilemma. Do they pay us the same
as an Englishman, or treat us like the labourers and house servants from the subcontinent?
Personally I would prefer it if everybody was compensated on merit. But that’s
just me and my revolutionary ideas.’

‘Well Saff, It’s refreshing to know that I’m
not the only one who feels like that.’

Saff told me he had trained as an accountant in
London before spending the past five years as a financial controller for a
large multinational company in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. He was relatively young,
but had a sophistication beyond his years. His professionalism and experience were
rare qualities in this part of the world, and I couldn’t help thinking he was
perhaps wasting his talents dealing with cowboys and freewheelers.

‘So are you here alone or with the family?’ I
asked.

‘With the wife and three kids. They absolutely
love it here. My wife has the help of a maid around the house. My kids are in
the best private school in the city. And I get to squeeze in a round of golf
every week.’ He smiled. ‘You know, my 5 year old learned to ski at Ski Dubai,
of all places. Not in Austria or Switzerland, but in Dubai. It’s insane.’

‘Only in Dubai,’ I laughed.

‘So, shall we get down to business?’

‘Sure,’ I replied.

‘Great. Well, I’m not too sure how much you
know about our company, so let me give you some background. Darius is a new
developer here in Dubai, although we have a lot of property investment
experience in London and the Far East. Our chairman is a wealthy Iranian businessman
who has interests in the technology and energy sectors, and is now looking to
diversify into the Dubai property market. We have significant capital behind
us, and once we have found the right locations we are ready to start building
immediately.’

‘Great. As I mentioned to you on the phone, Saff,
I have access to this plot through one of my key contacts who prefers to remain
anonymous at this point. I can tell you, however, that the plot is in a very
exclusive location and I am certain would meet your requirements.’

‘Is it so exclusive you can’t tell me where it
is?’ he asked.  

I suddenly froze. It was a reasonable request,
but I still didn’t have the answer. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I will gladly reveal
all of that information once you express your firm interest.’

Saff frowned. ‘Okay, that seems very strange,
but I guess I understand that you want to keep it confidential for now.’

‘Exactly. I’m glad you understand.’

‘Well, as I said to you there are two locations
that we are very serious about right now: the Dubai Marina and the Business
Bay. If it is in either of these locations and it’s for real, then I can tell
you confidentially that the deal is as good as done. But of course, before we
can take this any further, I will need some more information to discuss with my
chairman, like the plans, proof of ownership and so on.’

I was struggling to contain my excitement. ‘I
understand your position and I appreciate your openness, Saff. I will be sure
to get back to you this week with more details.’

‘I look forward to it. Now, I must be making a
move.’

***

 ‘Jerome, we need to talk,’ I shouted down my mobile
phone.

‘Hey, no need to bite my head off. What’s up,
buddy?’

‘I have some news about the deal.’

‘Okay, that’s great. I’m meeting some Emirati
friends of mine later tonight for drinks at the Crown Plaza hotel. Why don’t
you join us and we can speak then?’

‘Emiratis? Okay, sure. Who are they?’

‘Just a local friend of mine called Abdallah.
He’s a very influential young Arab. I’ve actually been meaning to introduce him
to you. It’s always good to build a bit of
wasta
. See you at ten thirty?’

‘See you there.’

Since arriving in Dubai, I still hadn’t had a
proper conversation with a real Emirati. It was not that I didn’t want to,
rather that I hadn’t really had an opportunity. Most Emiratis didn’t mingle in
expat circles and instead seemed to prefer living parallel lives in which their
paths seldom crossed with foreigners. But there was one overarching reason for
expats to pounce on any opportunity to meet and socialise with the Arabs if it
should ever present itself: to build
wasta
.

Wasta
was an old Arab expression that loosely
translated as ‘influence’ or ‘connections’. It had its origins in tribal
customs and remained deeply ingrained in the fabric of modern Arab society.
Strong
wasta
was crucial in Dubai if you wanted to get anything done. It
was like the force in
Star Wars
, a ubiquitous energy that held society together
and made the impossible magically real.
Wasta
could make traffic fines
disappear overnight, get you a table in a fully booked restaurant, secure a
constant flow of fresh coal for your
shisha
or make a toilet roll appear
under the door when you had run out. It was also crucial in the workplace, as
it could secure a pay rise or ensure that a well-deserved promotion was not
overlooked. Many international companies employed Emiratis for the sole purpose
of providing
wasta
. Whether you saw it as networking on speed or modern-day
magic, it was the key to success in Dubai. As a mere novice in its mysterious
ways, I was keen to learn and Jerome’s invitation to meet with his Emirati
friend could be the opportunity I was waiting for.

‘Piano Bar at ten’ read Jerome’s text message. I
made my way there. The Piano Bar was an intimate little joint that looked
straight out of an 1980s episode of
Miami Vice
. The ceilings were padded
and the walls were mirrored, with crystal chandeliers hanging ostentatiously
from the dark ceilings. The clientele were mainly groups of Emirati men in
traditional dress, all sipping on malt whisky or beer and puffing away on heavy
Cuban cigars. In the corner of the room was a black piano where a large African
man was smashing away on the ivories, and beside him stood a tall, dark
brunette in a ball gown singing a seductive cover version of Stevie Wonder’s
‘Superstitious’. A row of scantily clad Eastern European woman sat at the bar,
smoking cigarettes while scanning for potential clients.

‘How you doing, bro? Glad you made it!’ said Jerome’s
voice through the dense air. ‘Come and take a seat. Let me introduce you to
Abdallah Al Joom of the Al Joom family.’

‘Welcome, my friend, you are most welcome!’
said Abdallah, a young Emirati of no more than 30, with long, curly hair and
big, beady brown eyes. He was dressed in a traditional white
dishdasha
and sandals.

‘Thanks. It’s a pleasure to meet you too
Abdallah.’

The small table in front of us was full of bottles
of whisky, rum and vodka; it was clear that a fair amount had already been
consumed. Next to Abdallah sat an obese Emirati man who seemed too distracted
to notice me. ‘This is my brother Ahmed. He doesn’t speak any English.’ I
extended my hand, but he didn’t reciprocate. ‘Don’t mind Ahmed,’ said Abdallah.
‘He is very sad because it is his big trial tomorrow.’

‘Trial?’ I asked, curious.

‘Yes, trial. He smashed his Ferrari up. He was
drunk and hit some Australian bitch’s rented Ford. Can you believe it? The car was
totally fucked up! Now his trial is tomorrow.’ Abdallah laughed heartily as he
spoke. ‘Ahmed, you will go to jail tomorrow, so drink up and enjoy your last
day of freedom,’ he said mockingly, as he filled his brother’s glass with
whisky to toast him.

‘Come on, Ahmed, you may as well enjoy tonight.
Have a drink,’ insisted Jerome.

Suddenly, Ahmed burst out crying. He looked
inconsolable as his tears soaked his chubby hands. I felt bad for the poor guy,
but Abdallah just laughed at him ruthlessly.

‘Ha-ha, okay, Ahmed, okay! I give up. I cannot
see you so sad. I will tell you something now.’ Abdallah proceeded to say
something in Arabic and Ahmed eventually wiped the tears from his face, looking
stunned. ‘I told Ahmed, I have already spoken to somebody at the courts. They
delete the file,
khalaas
, finished! I got him off scot free with my
connections. There is no trial now.’

Abdallah almost fell on the floor in a fit of
hysterical laughter and I gathered that he had played some kind of twisted
practical joke on his poor brother. We all reluctantly joined in, except Ahmed,
who merely looked relieved. I didn’t know what was worse, the cruel nature of
the joke or the fact that a drink-driving offence could be erased with such a
lack of due legal procedure. I was sure we had just seen an example of
wasta
in action.

The singer was now in the middle of an awful
rendition of Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. I was furious at how she was
murdering a classic, but the Emirati audience seemed to love it. Two of the
Russian women at the bar had left and been replaced by two others who looked
almost identical.

‘Please excuse me, I need the bathroom,’
mumbled Abdallah, stumbling away. This was my chance to grab Jerome.

‘Jerome, I have some news about the plot, we
need to talk.’

‘Sure, dude, but let’s speak a bit later on,
okay? We are Abdallah’s guests tonight and I don’t want to seem rude.’

‘But Jerome, you don’t understand, I met the
CEO of a…’

‘Dude, we will chat later. Now have a drink and
enjoy yourself!’ I sat back sulkily.

Abdallah returned to the table and poured
himself a vodka and tonic. ‘So, my friend, Jerome tells me you like the party
scene in Dubai.’

‘Yes, I have been out a few times. I went to
360 and The Boudoir. Both very cool places.’

‘Ah, but those places are for tourists! The
real party in Dubai is a secret. They are private parties in villas in the
desert, maybe two or three hours’ drive from Dubai.’

I was intrigued. ‘And what happens there?’

‘Ha-ha, my friend, the correct question is what
doesn’t happen. I was at one party two days ago at my friend’s villa in Liwa.
Honest to God, he brought in bus loads of models. Bus loads! From Russia,
Croatia, Brazil, even England. All beautiful, like virgins, I swear to God. You
know how many women I sleep with at this party?’

‘How many?’ Jerome asked.

‘How many hair I have on my head? That’s how
many!’ Once again, Abdallah fell into a fit of laughter. He was now drunk
beyond reason.

‘Are you serious? How do I get an invite?’ said
Jerome.

‘I tell you, Jerome, these parties are like
heaven on earth. You think there is no cocaine in Dubai? Bullshit! In this
party there is mountains of cocaine,’ he gestured with his hands. ‘Fucking
mountains!’

I was shocked by Abdallah’s sordid revelations.
He went on to speak of underground illegal street-racing events where Emirati
kids would race their five-hundred-thousand-dollar modified sports cars in
secret locations in the desert until daybreak. He told of orgies and swingers’
parties and even gay clubs. I had learned more in this hour about the dark
underbelly of Dubai than most would hear in their lifetime. I had no idea if
his stories were true, of course. But they added to the mystique of the city, a
mysterious place where reality was cloaked in fantasy and truth depended on folklore.

‘So, guys, I would like to invite you tomorrow
to be my guests at the Dubai Polo Club to watch me play,’ said Abdallah as the
bizarre evening drew to an end.

‘I didn’t know you played polo,’ said Jerome.

‘I don’t really, I just pay people to tell me I’m
good! My wife will be there, so be careful what you say, okay?’

‘You’re married?’ I asked with surprise.

‘Yes, of course! Just because I screw doesn’t
mean I cannot be married, my friend. My family life and personal life do not
mix. Everybody is happy like this.’

Jerome raised his glass to toast him. ‘You have
the best life in the world, Abdallah! Money, cocaine, virgins and a beautiful
wife. What more could a man ask for?’

‘Ha-ha. So you guys will come?’

‘Of course!’ replied Jerome and looked at me. I
nodded and smiled politely.

‘Great! Be at the polo fields for two o’clock
sharp. Now, I must leave or I will be too drunk to win the match tomorrow.’ As
he got up he almost fell onto the table.

‘Steady on there, buddy,’ said Jerome, helping
Abdallah steady himself.

‘I’m okay, I’m okay.’

Jerome and I left shortly after. Jerome was
also now very drunk, so I helped him into a taxi home before jumping in another
myself. I was still bursting to tell him my news and I couldn’t wait for a
moment alone with him. One more day couldn’t hurt.

***

The following morning, Jerome picked me up from the
Emirates Towers and we made our way over to the Dubai Polo Club. As I got into
his car I noticed that he didn’t look his usual vibrant self, hiding his hung-over
eyes behind dark shades and shielding himself from the sun with a baseball cap.

‘Jerome, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the
plot deal we discussed at The Raffles.’

‘I see.’

‘Did you get any more details as we discussed?’

He paused. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. I should have
them in the next week. Why, do you have a buyer?’ he asked, keeping his eyes
fixed on the road.

‘Well, I have had a few serious conversations.
But I can’t take it any further without plans, prices and so on. Can you tell
me the location at least?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t just yet!’ he snapped. ‘Can’t
it wait until the end of the week?’

‘I need some details, just to help me back up
what I’m offering, that’s all.’

Jerome lost his temper. ‘Am I not getting
through to you? I said the end of the week! Is it so hard to wait just a few
more days? Let’s enjoy ourselves at this polo match today and chat about
business later. I will get you all the details you need in a few days. Is that
cool?’