Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (24 page)

Despite Sharon’s warning, I didn’t avoid
Farishta. I just couldn’t accept that this elegant woman could be so callous. Over
the next few months I started to spend more and more time with her, discussing
Signature’s upcoming projects and exploring ways we could work together. Every
time we met, Farishta surprised me. She was always beautifully dressed,
effortlessly graceful and softly spoken; a world away from the manipulative she-devil
Sharon and Amy had made her out to be. I wasn’t sure if Connor was aware of our
meetings, but I decided it was best not to let him know. I couldn’t deny I was
attracted to her, but I was careful that our relationship never strayed out of
a strictly professional context. That was until one evening exactly a month after
we first met, when everything changed. 

As Farishta and I were wrapping up a late
meeting at her offices, we decided to have a casual drink before calling it a
night. In a bar overlooking the Marina, the conversation turned to our lives in
Dubai.

‘So, do you live alone, Farishta?’

‘No, actually I don’t.’

‘Oh, so you’re married?’

‘No. But I do live with a man,’ she winked. ‘My
3-year-old son, Zack.’

‘Wow, I can’t believe you’re a mother!’

‘You’re too kind,’ she replied bashfully. ‘So
what about you, mister? Is there is a Ms Right in your life?’

‘I’m afraid not. Unfortunately she hasn’t
arrived yet.’

‘Well, do you know what she will look like?’

I laughed. ‘Well, she will probably have olive
skin and big green eyes. Her hair will be blonde and she will dress elegantly
and always look fabulous.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘A bit like you, perhaps.’

Farishta began to blush. As the bill arrived,
we both reached for it at once and our hands touched, like a scene from an old
romantic movie. It was subtle, but she didn
’
t
withdraw her hand immediately and I knew it was a sign.

‘Farishta, we’ve been spending a lot of time
together recently and I need to tell you something.’

‘Okay,’ she replied shyly.

‘I think I’m falling for you. Every time I see
you, I feel it. And I hope you feel the same way too. Will you join me for
dinner tomorrow night? And I don’t mean as business associates.’

She was speechless for a moment and looked
away. ‘I would love to.’

The ecstatic feeling that overcame me was
difficult to describe. I smiled and kissed the smooth skin on the back of her
hand. She then kissed me goodnight and left, while I sat alone for a little
longer, sipping my cocktail and thinking about her. It seemed Ms Right had
arrived in my life after all.  

The next morning, I strolled into the office with
a spring in my step. I was planning on breaking the news to Sharon and Amy, and
was adamant about proving to them that I was the man who was going to tame
their seductress for ever. But there was an unusual stir on the sales floor, as
most of the team were huddled around one of the desks.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Emma.

‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

‘What news?’

Amy put the newspaper under my nose. The bold
headline read ‘Moroccan Mata Hari Arrested at Dubai Airport’.

‘Who are they referring to?’

‘Farishta Hijazi at Signature. Apparently she’s
been up to no good.’ 

I snatched a copy of the newspaper from a
nearby desk and scanned the news:

‘Farishta Hijazi, sales executive at Signature
Properties, was arrested yesterday on charges of money laundering, arms dealing
and fraud worth millions of dollars. She has been accused of being a modern-day
Mata Hari. Hijazi had worked for the French secret service in 2004 and was sent
to Dubai late in 2006 to investigate terrorist financing and money laundering
in the UAE. However, while in Dubai under the cover of a real estate agent, Hijazi
had become involved in high-profile drug deals and the illegal sale of arms,
and is accused of funnelling millions of dollars of illegal funds into the
Dubai property market. She has also been accused of counter-espionage for the
Egyptian government. Hijazi was caught at Dubai International Airport in the
late hours of last night by the Secret Police as she tried to leave the country
with over two hundred thousand euros. She is currently in the custody of the
UAE authorities and is facing a jail sentence if convicted.’ 

I felt a pain in my chest I had never experienced
before, and I had to sit down.

‘
Are
you okay, Adam?
’
asked Sharon, who had spotted me collapse in my chair.

‘
Yes...
I
’
m fine...
’
I was actually finding
it difficult to breathe.

‘I told you there was something funny about
this girl, didn’t I?’ said Sharon.

‘Funny,’ replied Amy. ‘Very funny indeed.’

By 2006, Dubai was beginning to show the symptoms of a
severe identity crisis. Like the popular kid running for class president, the
Emirate aimed to please by offering something for everybody: tax-free status, a
family environment, a booming nightlife, luxury, security, hope, a future. But
this catch-all approval came at a cost. By trying to be all things to all people,
the city was struggling with its own identity.

Ostensibly, the overarching Muslim values of
the region still pervaded most aspects of society. The
azaan
or call to
prayer could be heard five times a day in the streets and the malls at prayer
times. Beautiful mosques could be seen every hundred metres, brimming with
weekly worshippers for Friday prayers. And all the latest Hollywood movies were
censored for sexual content before the cinemas could play them. But behind this
slim Islamic veil, there was a darker and more sinister Dubai, and many began
to accuse the city of contradictions and double standards.

Nevertheless, Dubai revelled in its duplicity.
A city of contrasts, it was both religious and debauched, tolerant and
oppressive, modern and medieval. In the malls, Russian beauties in hotpants and
boob tubes walked side by side with
burka
-clad Emiratis. A public
display of affection like a simple kiss was an arrestable offence, yet the excesses
of the wild nightlife were conveniently ignored. Expats consumed copious
quantities of alcohol within the havens of the hotels, but any public drunken
antics were punishable with prison and deportation. Was this a city succeeding
at being all things to all people? Was it a place in transition from tradition
to modernity? Or was it simply a land tolerant of hypocrisy? While some
celebrated the diversity as a balance of Eastern and Western values, others
warned that the Emirate was fast becoming the battleground of two civilisations
on a collision course; a time bomb waiting to erupt.

Despite the growing voices of conservatism,
Dubai stayed true to its business spirit. While many of its reactionary Arab
neighbours looked on with disdain, it cleverly used its liberalism to monetise
Islam’s vices. A case in point was the open sale of alcohol in Dubai, which was
something of a revolution in the conservative Middle East. While the Saudis
only drank in the privacy of their homes, Dubai opened the floodgates, making
alcohol freely available in bars, restaurants and nightclubs. It was not
unusual to see an Emirati in a swanky city bar dressed in a
dishdasha
enjoying a cold beer. But freedom came at a cost. Alcohol was sold at a huge
premium, which the government collected as an indirect tax on
haram
activity, prohibited by Islam. Vice, it seemed, was a lucrative luxury in
Dubai.

Sex was even bigger business and there was
something for every price range. Most of the city’s trendiest bars and clubs
were swarming with high-class prostitutes, while testosterone-fuelled labourers
piled into seedy joints and drinking holes, desperately seeking female
companionship for the lonely night ahead. Yet there was no government clampdown
on prostitution. There were even rumours of a state-regulated racket whereby
new girls were brought in regularly on sponsored visas to provide their
services to wealthy businessmen. Sex, after all, was good for business, and
Dubai’s authorities didn’t want to deprive wealthy customers if it ensured
closing the deal.

The Dubai authorities maintained a delicate
balance and operated on the precarious principle of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’.
The law was the law, but if it was broken in private without affecting the
greater social harmony, they would generally turn a blind eye. This applied to
everything from subletting property to cohabitation by unmarried couples, and
even homosexuality. Same-sex relationships were illegal according to Islamic
law, yet there was a thriving underground gay scene in Dubai and cohabiting gay
couples stayed under the radar. What people did in the privacy of their
bedrooms was not the concern of the authorities, unless it became public and a
potential source of embarrassment and reputational damage. The authorities could
not be put in a position to be tolerating
haram
actions and a response
was then needed to save face. In these instances, the full force of the law
would clamp down in the name of morality and Islam, and the consequences were
severe.

Many Emiratis disapproved of their country’s hypocrisy
and blamed the expats for the moral decay. They were at best ambivalent and at
worst opposed to the swarm of foreigners that had engulfed their country. Although
many understood the skills and expertise they brought with them, the voices of
dissent among the Arabs were daily becoming louder. They lamented the alien morals
and questionable intentions of young Westerners to corrupt their traditional
way of life. The locals felt threatened and outnumbered by foreigners, and as
their numbers dwindled to a mere 5 per cent of the country’s population, many
saw their identity and heritage being swept away by an alien invasion that brought
more harm than good.

The debate as to whether Dubai society was
experiencing a reformation or a moral decline raged on, but for one month every
year the city unmistakably cleaned up its act. The Islamic holy month of
Ramadan was like an annual stint at rehab, the city transforming into a serene,
peaceful and spiritual place. Restaurants were closed during daylight hours and
the malls were deserted. The radio advertisements for beach and foam parties
stopped, and working hours were significantly reduced to promote family values.
There was no question during Ramadan that Islam was Dubai’s prevalent ideology,
and for a month at least the liberal voices were silenced.  

***

It was the week before Ramadan and things were falling
into place for me. The fund formation process was well underway. I had
finalised the investor presentations and the brochures, which had been
submitted for printing. I had also started building close relationships with a
number of developers to build a pipeline of investments, and Tariq had even
told me he had some people lined up ready to invest once we were up and
running.

My social life was also better than ever. With
my sexy new apartment and high-profile job, I was now a qualified member of
Dubai’s social elite. I was regularly attending private parties, BBQs, garden
parties, art openings and property launches, and schmoozing with movers and
shakers and the cream of Gulf society. My wardrobe was dominated with designer
brands and I became more conscious than ever of where and with whom I was seen.
I had regular facials, manicures and banana-leaf massages. Perhaps I was
selling out a bit, but this was what I had wanted since I had touched down in
the city. Finally, I was living the elusive Dubai Dream and I felt vindicated.  

A few days before my hectic calendar took a
breather for Ramadan, I got an unexpected email from an old school buddy from
London called Aziz, who was passing through Dubai on his way back from
Malaysia. I hadn’t seen him for years, so I was looking forward to catching up
and showing him around the city. Aziz was that kid who had a fake ID made to
buy cheap beer from the liquor store so he could get drunk in the park, before
sobering up and going home to his unsuspecting parents. He had given me my
first cigarette at the age of 12 and my first joint at 15; although drugs were
illegal here, I was looking forward to reliving some of the old days. I had
even put together a list of clubs we would hit and had ranked them on a
spreadsheet into categories like music type, location and hotness of women.

We agreed to meet at the Royal Mirage hotel for
tea and
shisha
before heading out. I dressed to party and reserved a
great table in the courtyard overlooking the fountain. It was packed as usual
with groups of young locals and some expats lounging under the traditional
gazebos and puffing away on pipes.

Two tall figures approached me dressed in long
white traditional
thobes
. One had a short trimmed goatee, the other a
big bushy beard.

‘
Assalamualaikum
, brother, how are you?’
said the bushy-bearded man in a familiar English voice as he prepared to sit
down beside me.

‘Sorry, this table is reserved,’ I said
angrily.

‘Adam, it’s me, Aziz!’

I couldn’t believe my eyes. ‘Aziz? Is that you?
What the hell is that thing on your face?’

‘It’s a beard, bro.’

‘I can see that, but you look like a freakin’
Taliban! Is this some kind of twisted fashion statement? I thought I told you
to dress for clubbing?’

‘Sorry bro, I don’t go clubbing any more.’ He
sat down and smiled.

‘What?’

‘I have changed my ways, Adam. I have devoted
my life to God.’

‘You gotta be freaking kidding me.’

‘No brother, I’m not kidding. I finally found
the light.’ 

 ‘I see.’ I sighed. ‘So I guess there’s no
partying tonight.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, that’s just fabulous,’ I muttered
resentfully.  

‘Come on, don’t be upset. You should be pleased
for me,’ said Aziz.

‘I’m overjoyed,’ I replied sarcastically.

‘By the way, I want you to meet a friend of
mine.’ He beckoned over the tall man with the goatee. ‘This is Sharaz. He has
recently moved to Dubai from the UK like you.’

Sharaz was a handsome, dark-haired British
Pakistani man in his late twenties. He shook my hand enthusiastically.

‘Aziz has told me a lot about you,’ he said in
a Northern English accent.

‘What, that I’m an infidel who’s going to hell?’

He laughed out loud. ‘No, bro, that you’re one
of his oldest and best friends.’

‘As you both moved to Dubai around the same
time, I thought it would be good for you guys to meet and socialise together,’
said Aziz.

‘Yeah, sure, sounds great’. I imagined a day
out with Sharaz, praying and reading religious books with a spot of jihad
training. So what do you do here in Dubai, Sharaz?’

‘I work for the Dubai Department of Transport
as a project manager. I used to be a management consultant back in Birmingham,
but I wanted a change, so I thought Dubai might be a good place to go. Bit of
sun and tax-free cash can’t hurt.’ It was an all too familiar story. ‘So what
do you usually get up to in your spare time?’ he asked me.

‘Erm, you know, this and that. Go to the
mosque, pray and stuff.’ He was oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘What about you? Have
you made some friends in Dubai?’ I was desperately hoping he had so I would be
rid of the burden of having to befriend him.

‘Well, I have met a group of expats who call
themselves the “Dubai Brotherhood”. Have you heard of them?’

‘The Dubai Brotherhood? Sounds like a dodgy
suicide cult to me.’ I cracked up, but they weren’t amused. 

‘No, not at all. They’re a bunch of expat
Muslims, mainly from the UK. They get together at least a couple of times a
week for religious circles and family dinners. They’re great guys and even my
wife has made some good friends among their wives. It’s a tight-knit community.’

‘You’re married?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, pointing at his
wedding ring. ‘I have a 2-year-old son too.’

That was the nail in the coffin. I was young,
free and single, at the peak of my sexual prowess. Going out with Sharaz would
be like taking my disapproving dad on a pub crawl. There was no way we were
going to be best friends, but as I began to plot my escape, things got even
worse.

‘In fact, the brothers are having a dinner
event tomorrow evening. Why don’t you join me? I can introduce you to the guys.’

I began to panic. ‘Erm, well, tomorrow may
be...’

‘Come on, man, I’ll book you a place,’ he
insisted.

‘I’m afraid I...’

‘I think it will be good for you to meet these
guys. Maybe they’ll be a good influence on you,’ added Aziz. 

‘It’s at the BBQ Delights restaurant in Bur
Dubai,’ said Sharaz. ‘Get there for eight?’

I accepted there was no chance of getting out
of this without being rude, so I reluctantly accepted. ‘Okay, well, maybe I can
pop in for a bit.’

‘Good man! I wish I could join you guys too,
but I’m flying out tomorrow morning,’ said Aziz. ‘It’s a shame.’

Yes, a shame indeed, the lucky sod. And so just
like that, the precious final Friday-night party slot before Ramadan was
occupied by dinner with a bunch of bearded fundamentalists. I was not pleased.  

‘I’m so glad I introduced you guys,’ smiled
Aziz.  

‘So am I, Aziz,’ I replied through gritted
teeth. ‘So am I.’

***

On the night of the dinner, my strategy was clear. I would
stay for a short while and then make an inconspicuous exit without Sharaz
noticing. Hani had a table booked at the Casbar club for later, so I dressed in
preparation for a night on the town after the ordeal. The one vague positive in
this annoying situation was that the BBQ Delights was considered one of the
best Pakistani restaurants in Dubai, so I was actually looking forward to a good
meal before a heavy night of clubbing.

I arrived at the restaurant a little late and
everybody had already taken their seats. In the middle of the restaurant was a
huge table with around twenty bearded men chatting away. I felt frightfully
overdressed. Most of the other men were dressed in tracksuits and sandals,
while I was ready to rave in ripped jeans and tight t-shirt. Sharaz spotted me from
the other end of the restaurant and rushed over to greet me.

‘Hey, buddy, glad you could make it. Let me
introduce you to some of the guys.’

He went around the table one by one. There was
Akbar the accountant, Ali the project manager, Haytham the recruitment consultant
and Shaqeel the investment banker. They were all educated professionals working
for various international firms across the city, and they all seemed genuinely
glad to meet me. I took my place at the table and we ordered a tantalising
selection of chicken curry, lamb chops, biryani, Indian mince and BBQ fish. The
delicious food appeared minutes later, and as we tucked in the conversation
started flowing.