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The United Arab Emirates is a Muslim country. The religion penetrates multitude aspects of day to day life, to an extent. The country sits somewhere between the more devout Muslim countries such as the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and secular countries such as Jordan, religiously if not geographically. The impact of religion is felt differently in different emirates. Sharjah banned the sale or consumption of alcohol, and has even banned the smoking of shisha (or hookah, or hubbly-bubbly), recognising that nicotine is a narcotic. They also have the strictest decency laws in the country. The national airline of Sharjah - Air Arabia - broadcasts a pre-flight prayer. In Abu Dhabi much of the business is conducted in Arabic[1], and places of business are closed on Friday until after the midday prayers have been conducted. In Dubai mosques are dotted around the city so that muslims are never more than half a kilometer from a place of worship. In certain more crowded parts of the city, the call to prayer can be heard issuing from several directions at once, their traditional Arabic calls creating a strange echoing around the buildings. Across the emirates there is an internet filter which blocks all sites which have content that is "inconsistent with the religious, cultural, political and moral values of the United Arab Emirates". This description (obviously) includes any website where pornography can be viewed or where one can participate in gambling, but also social networking sites have from time to time been banned, if the pictures are a bit risque or there is fear that people are using these sites for dating. Flickr, a site for photographers, was blocked when it was discovered that one can, if one looks hard enough, view naked ladies. Prostitution is a tricky area where what actually happens contradicts the official line. Technically it is illegal, but the only place that I have visited where it has been more brazen and blatant is Amsterdam. Prostitutes prowl the streets of Bur Dubai and several drinking establishments are reknowned as being hooker bars[2], where the only reason to go is to buy sex. The government makes a show of deporting several thousand prostitutes a year, but the practices continue with girls from Africa, the far east, and Russia selling themselves in bar and on street. The practice of soliciting sex is illegal, as well as immoral, but puzzlingly it continues.
My birthday last year was, honestly, disappointing. Being new to the city, I made no attempt to celebrate. Many of my old friends had forgotten me, and aside from having a couple of quiet beers, it went largely unremarked. In 2007, I resolved, I would at least have some good food and get a little bit drunk. We go to Aangan, an Indian restaurant in the Dhow Palace Hotel. I have vague recollections of the food being good from a drunken visit after the previous year's rugby sevens. Something drastic must have happened in the interim months however, because half of us are displeased with our food. The few good meals are spoiled as we wait for an hour only to have everything - starters and mains - arrive at once. After the meal we go to the Irish Village for a change. We gather together what seats we can find, drink our body weights in Guinness, and take the piss out of the one-man-band. It is a pretty good night.
Much as you can mark the beginning of spring in the U.K. by the appearance of wildflowers and the frolicking of new born lambs, in Dubai too, the seasons have their own identifiers. When winter begins, everyone in Dubai starts wearing coats, gloves, and scarfs, despite it never getting colder than about 10 degrees Celsius. When spring begins, the patio heaters (seriously) are turned off, and the masses return to the beer gardens for a brief spell. When summer begins, every white face in the city disappears, and people are only allowed to discuss the heat or the humidity. And when summer ends and autumn begins, the hookers return to the street of Bur Dubai. They drag themselves out of not-hibernation and begin their autumn mating rituals. You know that when it is cool enough for the ladies of the mid-afternoon to stand around in the sun, that the worst of the heat is finally over and it is cool enough to start going to the beach again. The ocean view has disappeared since April and May, to be replaced with a dredger pluming sand onto what will eventually be Gimmick Island. The beach is crowded with Pakistani men who wade into the sea fully clothed, and Russian women in bikinis who take photos of each other as if they are on a Sports Illustrated swimwear shoot. The Pillipinos play catch over the volleyball net[3] at the rear of the beach and the Brits strut around trying to hold in their bellies whenever the Russian women look in their direction. We have a regular spot now, in front of one of the flags, and it has gotten such that we no longer ask where we are going to meet anymore; we just turn up, shake out our towels, and pretend to read Time Out Dubai whilst we really look at the passing Russian women[4].
The conflict of interests between religion and money mean that certain compromises must be made. One such compromise is the availability of pork in the country. Pork is haraam[5] because the animal is seen as dirty, a carrier of disease, and slovenly. I had resigned myself, prior to moving here, to not eating pork until I returned to the United Kingdom. I was quite surprised then, to find it everywhere. The local supermarkets have a pork shop in a separate room, with "NON-MUSLIMS ONLY" written on a sign by the door. Many of the restaurants and bars in the hotels have pork products on the menu. This requires a separate area in the kitchen for the preparation of these goods, but given the number of expats hankering after a bacon sandwich, many of the outlets consider it worth the extra effort. I find myself eating more pork since I moved out here than I ever did in the United Kingdom. A similar compromise is made concerning alcohol. Alcohol is forbidden because narcotics cloud the thoughts, and this could affect your ability to pray. And of course, it doesn't exactly promote moral behaviour. In reality it is as readily available in Dubai, perhaps more so, as pork. A small concession to the religion is made in that the sale of alcohol is banned from sundown on the night before a religious holiday to sundown on the day of the holiday. These "dry nights" are enforced across the emirate; with the exception of special cases or circumstances that would hinder Dubai's ability to make money or market itself as the kind of place that would enable them to make money. A case in point was the Dubai World Cup, which in 2007 fell on the occasion of the Prophet Mohammad's birthday. The event should have been dry up until sunset, but special dipensation was given to the event because it was unheard of that the race-goers go thirsty. Of course, this caused outrage amongst those alcoholics in Dubai who weren't able or willing to buy tickets to the races, but the rules are the rules.
With an unprecedented 12 people on our team, we come third in the pub quiz. Our AED 100 prize inspires in us enthusiasm and then, when are we unable to repeat our success, we become apathetic. We stop going.
The annual company party resurfaces after a hiatus of a couple of years. Following staff feedback the event is restructured as a Family Fun Day, complete with a jugglers and balloon artists. It sounds delightful, and we suspect that the only people who completed the feedback forms were family men and women who were disappointed that the company were not providing anything for their broods. Needless to say, when it is announced that there will be a limit on two beers per person and that it will be held at a polo club many, many miles into the desert, we boycott it. A platoon of the single and the childless head instead to the Irish Village and spend a pleasant afternoon not getting our faces painted.
During Ramadan, the breaking of the daily fast occurs with the meal of Iftar. The tradition of breaking the fast with families and friends is one that is also given a special slant in Dubai. Iftar meals are held in many of the restaurants and most of the large hotels. These meals are essentially all-you-can-eat buffets, little different from those partaken during the rest of the year. With the prices charged for these meals, it often seems to contradict the principles of sacrifice and generosity towards those less fortunate that are so prevalent during the holy month. The iftar meals are an opportunity for those non-muslim expats to partake in the holy month albeit a slightly pleasurable part of it. We attend an iftar buffet at the Ritz. The food is good, and it is interesting to attend an all-you-can-eat that is not dominated by white westerners. Whilst, during my time in Dubai I have developed a fondness for some Arabic foods, I am still not convinced by the perfumed date juice. I will stick with the beer, I think.
In January, I finally tired of living in an empty flat and purchased furniture. In October, I return from work to find that my housemate has purchased rugs and lamps and pictures for the lounge. I put my foot in my mouth when I hope that the pictures are not the standard ones found in Ikea, because my year in Dubai has shown me that about half of all expat homes are decorated with the same Swedish art. 'I happen to think they're quite nice,' he tells me, although I do wonder why he is decorating a room he never uses. He is holding a dinner party for some of his friends, and he does not want the flat to look un-lived in. He moves the kitchen table to the lounge, cooks enough lasagne to make Italy sick to the stomach, and then promptly never goes in the lounge again. The Ikea pictures were never erected.
Getting a haircut in Dubai is a trying experience. In the United Kingdom, I would religiously get my haircut every fourth week keeping it as short as possible. In Dubai, having to deal with either outrageously camp Pinoy hairdressers or Indian barbers, I find the durations between visits growing to two or even three months. The Pilipinos are not bad at what they do, but the flamboyant campness of each and every one of them is unsettling. You have to be really comfortable with your sexuality to get your haircut there. I like to think that I am, but the sheer quantity of faffing and mincing that accompanies each trim is too much even for me. Also, the warmed-towel they place over your face -- without warning! -- is hot enough to remove skin. The Indians are consummate professionals, who take pride in their work. However, this means that even a simple haircut like mine can take more than half an hour; about four times longer than it took back home. To cap it all off, despite the fact that you have been grinding in your teeth through the most methodical and deliberate trim ever for the best part of your day, they still offer you a head massage. "No! I want to go home, and salvage something of the day! You have other customers waiting!" A year I have been searching, and I still have not found a hair-dressers I am happy with. I suspect I shall still be looking at the end of the year.
In September we made a site visit to an artificial Island to get an idea of what the Client required for a new island that we were to design for them. Another project we are working on involves a similar artificial island, and thus a similar site visit. I drive myself and one of our structural engineers for the three hours it takes to get to this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. I time the journey to perfection, arriving at the town harbour at the scheduled time of 8.30am. I receive a phonecall from the client, saying that they would not arrive for another hour. We drive around town to kill some time, and then spend the remaining 55 minutes waiting for the others at the harbour. A dozen people from the client arrive, and there is very much the sense that it is a jolly boys' outing for them. They have cool-boxes with snacks and drinks on their minibus, and they seem unconcerned that they have kept us waiting. Such is the holiday feel I would not have been surprised if they had turned up wearing knotted hankies and singing 'I do like to be beside the seaside'. The boss informs us that the boat has not arrived, and suggests that we retire to a nearby hotel to wait for it. After an hour in which everyone drinks about a dozen cups of coffee, and the clients' holiday spirit diminishes, he informs us that the boat is still about an hour away. We do the maths: the guy has been sailing since dawn, so he will need to rest and refuel; the island is notoriously difficult to locate and then get to (our own survey team having taken three hours to find it during a recent bathymetric survey). At the rate we were going we would be lucky to return to land by nightfall. The boss calls the site visit off, and asks if we can return to tomorrow when the boat's pilot will be better rested. My Indian colleague and I consider the three hours it will take us to get back to Dubai, and then the prospect of driving for another six hours the following day. Amazingly I manage to tell him that we are not available without swearing or resorting to physical violence. So far I have managed to avoid returning.
The 2007 Rugby World Cup that started in September finishes in October. We play Australia in the Quarter Final. Unable to face the torrent of abuse that will accompany our inevitable defeat (from every other nationality as well as the Aussies), we hide in a friend's apartment. We watch the match with tea and chocolate digestives, astoundingly British. We are amazed as, for the second tournament in a row, we evict the Aussies, and wish that we had been in a pub after all. We play France in the Semi Final. We are camping with the Bedouin in Jordan whilst the match is on, and are unable to watch it. We miss another good one as, for the second tournament in a row, we evict the hosts. We play South Africa in the Final. I watch with a few friends. Unfortunately, we are unable to beat the team who already humiliated us in the pool stages, and at the end of the day the trophy goes to the team who wanted it more. We leave as tournament runners-up, a position that we had never hoped to occupy when the world cup began. It buoys our spirits somewhat, and makes us look forward to next-year's Six Nations Tournament all the more[6].
The Red Bull Flugtag returns to Dubai. The Flugtag is getting quite famous nowadays, as events are held across the globe in which hapless (amateur and professional) engineers build themselves flying machines and launch themselves (often vertically) off of scaffolding into the nearest body of water. The body of water in question is Dubai Creek, and a group of us head down to Creek Park to watch the competition. Officially, we are there to support a friend who has entered a team this year. In fact, we are there to watch people fall of the edge of a pier and get very wet, very quickly. In this our friend does not disappoint us, as their Steve Irwin-themed flying machine Stingray soars like the proverbial lead balloon. An added bonus is the news that each of the team is required to perform a dance prior to flinging themselves off the pier, to demonstrate their teamwork skills or something. As our friend and her colleagues hit each other with inflatable kangaroos in front of 50,000 people we wonder if this is perhaps the best thing that Dubai has ever done for us.
Religion in Dubai is somewhat tricky to get a handle on, and for that reason I apologise for any mistakes. The Arabs whom I have befriended tell me different things about religion than the expats and, sometimes, each other. Add in the fact that most westerners seem adverse to asking questions about Islam, and the problems associated with transliteration and translation of Arabic, and it is no surprise that my knowledge of Islam is somewhat confused, even after a year. It seems to be a place where we are told one thing about the religion, and then witness another, contradictory thing about it. Take, for example the blind-eye turned towards prostitution or the leniency shown towards expat consumption of alcohol or pork. Take, for example, the confusion about narcotics; alcohol is abominibal, but nicotine is fine. Whilst I sometimes feel that I'm only playing at being an expat - the place is so westernised, so British that at times I don't feel like I'm living abroad at all - I'm glad that I have the opportunity to sin as I please (albeit discretely). I'm also encouraged that my friends of other faiths are free to worship as they please (albeit discretely) and that they are made to feel welcome here.
Photographs taken in the United Arab Emirates during 2007 can be seen here:
[1] Also increasingly more in the other emirates.
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Concept and content by Kevin Paul Jones Copyright © 2008 Kevin Paul Jones |  |
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