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August and September. The city melts. The city hides inside air-conditioned homes, cars, and offices. The journeys between these sanctuaries become mad but controlled dashes as one tries to find the right speed to not work up a sweat but also spend as little time outside as possible. Often the fast walk wins out, because sweat is inevitable. Only the poor or the foolish stay outside for any reasonable duration. They huddle in the scant shadows at the bus-stops, or trudge the streets, unable to justify the cost of a taxi for anything but the really long journeys. Maids walk with handbags held up to shield their eyes from the sun. Labourers take their midday break[1] sleeping wherever they can find a big enough spot out of the heat. I become resigned to sweating every time I step outside, and try to ignore it. My contact lenses are nearly always in, because I always need my sunglasses. Clothes are only ever worn once. I walk rarely, spend more time in the gym. I hear it is not as bad as last year was.
In March, the Birthday of the Prophet fell on the weekend. Much to the chagrin of the employees, muslim or otherwise, the powers-that-be decided not to give us the day off in lieu. We grumbled our way into work as usual. In August, the Ascension of the Prophet also falls on the weekend. Determined not to have a riot on their hands, it is announced that we can take Thursday off in lieu. The edict is issued far too late for anyone to plan to go away, but we appreciated the extra day of lie-in. Shortly after the announcement that the remaining days were to be fixed, we begin planning a holiday for mini-Eid[2]. Jordan is eventually chosen as a destination, after much debating, a couple of ineffectual pub-based meetings, and about a hundred or so emails. One of the most ineffectual meetings sees us ending up at the Music Room, an undiscovered night club located within easy walking distance of my flat. The band are a standard Philllipino house band, although they play rock music. I am won over when they play some old-school Metallica. It is nothing amazing, but different enough to be memorable.
Bur Dubai suffers from a distinct lack of car parking. Most buildings have only one space per apartment, despite most families having two or even three cars. Those surplus cars have to pay to park on the streets or in one of a few off-street car parks. Traditionally, my housemate and I (whoever did not have the allocated space), would park in an undeveloped lot across the street from our building. The parking was free, and whilst your car would get dirty much more quickly, it was close enough to our front door that you would not be drenched in sweat by the time you reached the building. In August however, the RTA decides that it does not like all of these people not giving them money, and makes it illegal to park in an undeveloped lot. The resultant influx of cars onto the streets of Bur Dubai makes it difficult to find a space. I think I have hit gold when I discover, not far from my building, an off-street car park that is almost always empty. It is only after a few weeks that I discover the reason for the vacancies; children from the area use the car parks to play cricket. I can appreciate that they do not really have anywhere else to go -- land is so valuable in the city that it is not going to be squander on something that generates as little revenue as a cricket pitch -- but I do not want my car to get damaged, so I reluctantly return to the streets.
In spring I was warned that during the shut-in months of summer, the boredom is intolerable. My attempt to combat this boredom takes the form of a PlayStation 3. I shoot monsters whilst the city swelters. Actually, I do not play it as much as I would have thought. I still have my usual distractions -- writing, reading, watching DVDs -- and the reality of being confined to the flat never really materializes. The heat discourages you from staying outside, and activities such as going to the beach or for walks or playing sport stop happening, but activities in other air-conditioned locations continue on relatively undisturbed. I go to the gym more, I go to the pub more, and the season of summer blockbusters means that I go to the cinema more. My PS3 sometimes goes weeks without being played on. My friends despair at my lack of addiction.
I provide leave cover for a colleague when he returns to the United Kingdom, covering the phones and putting out fires in his absence. I am a little worried at the prospect; one of the Clients is perpetually displeased and expresses his dislike for us and our work by shouting down the telephone. Being only a Project Engineer I would normally be safe from these tirades, but at the end of a second week I am called down to the capital for a meeting. The Client rants and raves, I fail to provide answers because the person who knows the answers is sitting in a pub in the U.K. I do the best I can, leave the city as quickly as possible, and try not to do upset anything until my colleague returns. Otherwise it goes relatively well. My working day gets longer, because I am still covering my own jobs, but no real problems arise and I leave the office with a certain amount of pride in having coped.
At the end of August I return to the United Kingdom to attend the wedding of two friends. I have been absent from this green and pleasant isle for almost eight months now, and it is good to see my family and friends again. I move from mid-forties temperatures to early-twenties, and it is quite refreshing. Surprisingly, the only times I really get hot in two weeks are when I am sleeping -- my parents thinking that my room needs a winter duvet about two feet thick during the summer months -- and when I am wearing a suit in the gardens of Sketty Hall prior to my friends' wedding reception. The wedding itself goes very well, and a great time is had by all. I have not seen some of my university friends since I left the country almost a year before, and most of them for even longer than that. Given my expat status, I resign myself to not seeing many of them again until another one of us gets married.
Ramadan, the holy month of fasting, has begun by the time I return to the United Arab Emirates. Having already experienced one Muslim-country Ramadan, I am now an old hand, ready to dispense advise to the newcomers and occassionally fabricate horror stories to make their first Ramadan here more interesting. 'They arrested about 100 western expats last year for not respecting the holy month,' I tell one increasingly horrified colleague. 'Didn't that British woman get lashes as well?' another friend helpfully adds[3]. Horror stories are fun. Ramadan makes much less of an impact in my life this year than it did in 1427. At the office, I sit in a different room, so no longer have to sneak my lunch, ever wary of people walking up and down the corridor. It seems less important to be sensitive, for some reason, and I even catch myself drinking at the water cooler on occassion. It concerns me; I want to be respectful, yet my lapses are anything but. I resolve to be extra vigilent next time. The only place the lack of observence troubles me is at the gym. On my first visit in Ramadan, I leave my water bottle behind. At the end of a very thirsty cardio session I realise that Fitness First is the only place in Dubai where the fast is not observed. Every person there is drinking from a water bottle or the paper cones at the water cooler. I guess it is stupid to try and train without taking in water, but wonder why no one is drinking in the special areas that the signs posted everywhere request we use. One of the projects that I babysat during my colleague's holiday involves the creation of an artificial island off the coast of Abu Dhabi. Sadly, nothing so exciting as one of the Palms or the World, but an island for the exploratory drilling of oil wells. In order to get a better idea of what the client wants, and what not to do, we visit an existing island. We initially dread venturing out in such heat, but during our boat ride we are cooled somewhat by the wind of its passage and are lulled into a false sense of security. When we reach the island and stop, we immediately remember just how hot it is. We trudge around on the compacted sand, sweating under hard hats we do not even need. There is nothing above us, nothing that could fall and actually require our delicate craniums to be protected. There is no shade, no structure, we are surrounded by nothing but endless miles of water as flat as glass and a sky that has not seen a cloud in weeks. We burn as we try to take photos of the existing facilities, struggle to concentrate as the client explains the problems they have had. When we finally return to my colleague's Pajero back on the Abu Dhabi road, I doubt that I have ever been more grateful for air-conditioning.
Going to the United Kingdom, it seemed prudent to hand in my hire car rather than continue to pay for it. When I return to Dubai, I am given a Toyota Yaris. The Yaris is a small, inoffensive car, similar to the Echo! Echo! Echo! Echo! but with a fraction more street-cred. The version I am given is pimped, with blacked out windows and a CD player. They think that this somehow justifies charging more than they would for a Ford Focus (like I actually requested), but I manage to get away with being charged the normal Focus rates. The tinted windows cause particular problems for me, as at night it is impossible to see anything. This is not helped by the vast numbers of Dubai residents who drive around at night without any lights on. My exasperation causes my friends no end of amusement, and they chuckle as I get increasingly stressed when night-time driving. My anger is warranted, I believe There is nothing more terrifying, I believe, than pulling into a lane to overtake someone, only to find that the space you thought was empty is actually occupied by some asshole in a Hummer doing 160 kph without any lights on. I love driving here, sometimes. The 2007 Rugby World Cup begins in September, and I find my normal social life altered as I make frequent trips to the Irish Village to watch the matches. The time difference from France inconveniences us, as many of the evening matches start too late for us to be sober or awake for work the following morning. It is a sacrifice we are usually willing to make. Ramadan means that the matches that start before 7pm have to be watched without any visible means of Guinness. It is an unusual experience. The Irish Village erects a huge tent for watching the rugby. Inside there are four small bars, two monolithic televisions back-to-back in the centre, and grand-stand seating. When any of the top tier teams play on a weekend the place is packed to the rafters, freezing from the air-conditioning, and deafening from the speakers. It is nothing short of brilliant! My life, once more, revolves around rugby and Guinness, and I love it.
I like to walk in the city; it is not the nicest looking of places, but getting out and exploring the old areas of Bur Dubai and Karama and Deira relaxes me. It is seeing part of the city that is not shiny or new or garish. It is harder in the summer, when your shirt is soaked before you have even got out of sight of your building and the humidity makes every breath difficult. In winter you see all sorts of people, asains and arabs and caucasians walking around, but in the summer all but the asians disappear. I walk to the Creek and back several times and the only white face I see is my reflection.
I have been in Dubai for a year now. Sometimes its still hard to believe that I made the move. Sometimes I wonder if it was the right decision, and sometimes I wonder why it took me so long to do it. I am still enjoying myself, and I guess that is the main thing. As long as the benefits outweigh the frustrations, then I will continue to live here. Currently that account is in credit, and when asked I cannot honestly say when I will make the move again, or where I'll go when I do. So, what have I learned so far in Dubai? I've learned that sweat is inevitable. I've learned a grand total of five words in Arabic, and I pronounce them terribly. I've learned that sometimes you have to sleep until 3 o'clock on a Friday afternoon; if you do not make time to relax, then one day your body will bitch-slap you when it is most inconvenient. I've learned that I should not be unsupervised in Rock Bottom. And I've learned that despite our best intentions, sometimes stereotypes and clichés are true. Sometimes they are not. The trick is in not letting the assumptions make you prejudiced, and staying on the right side of that line. The line is a lot easier to cross out here than it was in the U.K., and that's a scary thought sometimes. Until next time.
Photographs taken in the United Arab Emirates during 2007 can be seen here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/53537358@N00/sets/72157603857917781/ Photographs taken during my summer holiday back to the United Kingdom can be found here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/53537358@N00/sets/72157601923810410/detail/ Photographs taken at my friends' wedding can be viewed here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/53537358@N00/sets/72157602069790054/detail/
[1] It now being illegal to make staff work outside between the hours of 12 and 3pm
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Concept and content by Kevin Paul Jones Copyright © 2008 Kevin Paul Jones |  |
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