Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (25 page)

‘So it seems most of you guys are from the UK,’
I said. 

‘Yes, I would say so. A couple of Americans
too,’ replied Shaqeel, a short, fat middle-aged man with a beard that consumed
most of his face.

‘And do you enjoy the lifestyle out here in
Dubai?’

‘It’s great, especially for our families,’
replied Akbar, a gaunt-looking man in his mid-forties.

‘Yes, there’s a good British expat community
out here,’ I said. 

‘True, there is, but we only care to spend time
with the British Muslims. We are a close community.’

‘Oh, so you only socialise with other British
Muslims?’ I asked.

‘Of course. The other Brits spend their time
getting drunk and partying. Why would we have left the evils of the UK to come
and seek it here?’ said Shaqeel. There was a roar of laughter from the table. 

‘Life is so easy for Muslims in Dubai. We don’t
have to worry about finding halal meat to eat or avoiding drunken people on the
streets,’ said Akbar.

‘That’s the benefit of living in a Muslim
country,’ added Shaqeel, as he bit into his chicken breast.

‘It’s the main reason I moved here,’ replied a
third man to my right.

‘Yes, not to mention the fantastic tax-free
salary and lifestyle, right?’ I joked, tucking into my naan bread.

Nobody seemed to find my off-the-cuff remark
amusing. ‘No, not really. Those are secondary concerns to me. I actually left
the UK because I no longer felt welcome there,’ said Akbar to a chorus of
agreement.

‘Really, why wouldn’t you feel welcome? It’s
your home country,’ I asked, genuinely interested.

‘Well, things are changing for us Muslims in
the West, particularly after 9/11. We are becoming increasingly victimised by
the media and judged by society. I think it’s just going to get worse. So I
decided it was best for me and my family to leave for Muslim lands.’

‘Do you think you are more welcome here than in
the UK?’ I asked.

‘Of course. This is an Islamic country. I feel
more at home here than anywhere.’

‘Even though you have no rights here? You will
always be a second-class citizen and you would have to leave straight away if you
lost your job. How can you possibly call this place more welcoming than
Britain?’

‘Because it’s a Muslim country and we will
never be victimised for our faith,’ said Shaqeel adamantly.

‘So you decided to turn your back on the
country that gave you the opportunity to come here in the first place.’ I was
beginning to lose my cool.

‘Well, I’m in a better place now.’

‘But you are not a citizen here and you never
will be. You’re a commodity. You’re only worth something in Dubai as long as
you have a job that a local Arab has not yet learnt to do himself.’

‘I’m not sure about that. This country allows
me to earn a good wage and be who I want to be.’ 

‘Yes, but only because of your Western
education, British passport and UK work experience!’ I was visibly heated now. ‘You’re
only valuable here as long as you’re contributing to the economy. As soon as
you stop adding value, all of that goes out of the window and you’re out of
here like yesterday’s newspaper.’

Akbar was also becoming emotional. ‘I came to
Dubai so that I could bring my family up in an Islamic environment. The crime
rate in the UK is getting out of control and I don’t want my children growing
up surrounded by junkies, alcoholics and criminals.’

‘Do you honestly believe that Dubai is a crime-free
society?’ I asked, remembering the shocking story of the Russian and the jeweller.

‘Yes, of course, it’s a Muslim country. There
are stricter punishments here.’

‘Have you even driven down the backstreets of
Bur Dubai on a Friday night?’ I asked him frankly.

‘No.’

‘Have you heard of places like the Cyclone or the
Rattlesnake?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Have you heard the story about the Russian and
the Indian jeweller?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I think the
Dubai you live in is a very different place from the one I know.’

I was interrupted by a text message on my
mobile phone. It was Hani:

We are going to Club Casbar now. See you
there. H

It was my cue to leave, but just as I was about
to slip away, Sharaz came over.

‘So are you enjoying yourself?’ he asked.

‘Yes, they’re certainly an interesting bunch.’

‘Great. Listen, I have to make a move. The wife
is home alone, so I need to get back.’

‘Yes, I actually need to go too. Thanks for
inviting me, Sharaz, it’s been a real eye-opener,’ I said while I shook his
hand.

‘My pleasure. Let’s meet again soon.’

I politely agreed, knowing full well that I had
no intention of seeing Sharaz or the Brotherhood again. He was nice enough, but
his religious and family-oriented lifestyle was a world apart from mine, and I
just couldn’t see us being friends. I wished him goodnight, jumped in a taxi
and headed to the Casbar for the real night’s events to begin.

***

On the way, I thought about the discussion at the table
tonight. The Dubai Brotherhood were not the crazed fundamentalists I had
expected them to be. They were in fact a great bunch of guys and had actually made
me feel very welcome. But their disdain for Western values disturbed me. They
seemed oddly oblivious to the fact that every vice they abhorred was readily
available here in Dubai, often on an even grander and more decadent scale. If
it were not for their British or American passports, they would certainly not
be earning the inflated salaries they were enjoying now, and I wondered if any
of them would ever consider relinquishing their passports now that they were in
so-called Muslim lands. It was unlikely. Instead, the Brotherhood were content
to be a closed community, living in a bubble of self-deception in a country
rife with contradictions.

It was already midnight and as all clubs had to
shut by three, it didn’t leave me much time. I rushed to the entrance of the
Casbar, where a cute Lebanese girl in tight leather pants stood with a
clipboard, accompanied by two huge African bouncers.

‘Hi, I’m on Hani’s table.’ She stared at me
from head to toe, then scanned her clipboard before nodding her approval for
the bouncer to open the velvet rope.

The strobe lighting was in full flow as house
music blasted out onto the huge dance floor, where a giant crowd was raving to
the beats. Above the main room was a balcony with a number of VIP enclosures
where groups of guys and girls danced together in a more intimate setting. The
crowd at the Casbar was different to the other clubs in the city: there were
more locals and more Russian models than anywhere else, many of them high-class
hookers. I spotted Hani on his table at the back of the dance floor and
strolled over to join him. He was with at least a dozen girls, most of them
Lebanese or Moroccan, and a giant magnum of champagne sat in the middle of the
table, surrounded by bottles of vodka and whisky.

‘You finally made it!’ he shouted as he spotted
me, and gave me a hug. ‘Where were you all evening?’

‘It’s a long story. I got tied up at a dinner
with some religious guys.’

‘Religious guys? Wow, don’t tell me you’re
going Taliban on me, buddy. Who the hell am I gonna share all these girls with?
I’m getting too old to handle them all myself.’ He laughed. ‘By the way,
there’s somebody I want you to meet. He’ll be joining us shortly.’ 

‘Who?’

‘He recently moved to Dubai from the UK
actually. And I think he’s an even bigger party animal than you. This guy is a
beast! You’re gonna love him.’

I poured myself a drink while Hani grabbed two
of the girls and sandwiched himself between them. Everywhere I looked, there
were women in tiny skirts or hotpants dancing provocatively to the music. The champagne
and vodka were flowing and the crowd was out of control.

As I returned to the table from the bathroom, I
noticed that Hani’s friend had arrived with a Russian blonde who had the
longest legs I had ever seen. I couldn’t make out his face as Hani hugged him
and poured him a drink.

‘Hey, Adam, this is my new friend from the UK I
was telling you about,’ Hani said.

As the man turned to face me, I almost choked
on my drink. Dressed in a crisp black shirt and jeans, it was Sharaz!

He looked as shocked as I was. ‘Hey, man, how
you doing?’

‘Sharaz, what the hell are you doing here? I
thought you were going home to your...’

‘You gotta be shitting me?’ interrupted Hani. ‘You
know each other?’

‘Yeah, we do. Small world,’ I said.

‘Well, that’s great! No need for formalities,
so let’s fucking party!’ Hani jumped on the table and threw his hands in the
air, which the girls all seemed to love.

‘Sharaz, what are you doing here?’ I asked
again.

‘Are you joking? This place is off the hook,’
he smiled.

‘But this isn’t your scene! Besides, I thought
you had to go home to your wife?’

‘Nah, man, she’s tucked up in bed with the kid.
I told her I’m at an all-night Islamic study session. She’ll never know.’

‘But I thought you were…’  

‘You thought I was a good little religious boy,
didn’t you. Ha-ha, what can I say, I’m a social chameleon. I adapt to my
surroundings. By the way, this is Anya. She’s from Moscow. She’s smoking hot,
isn’t she?’

‘Do the Brotherhood guys know this?’ I asked.

‘The brothers? All they know is the way to the mosque.
They’re useful to know to recommend a plumber or to borrow some jump leads, so
I keep them sweet.’ Sharaz whispered in my ear. ‘I think Anya really likes me.
She gave me a huge discount for the night.’

‘Congratulations...’ I replied.

‘So come on, let’s party, dude!’

Sharaz led Anya to the dance floor while I
returned to the table and sat down. This was all too surreal for me. I just
couldn’t get my head around how wrong I had been about him. Not only was he not
the religious family man I had thought, he had lied to his wife and was dancing
with a Russian prostitute. Even by my hazy moral principles, I knew this was
wrong.

I spent the rest of the night watching Sharaz
from the corner of my eye. For some reason, I felt strangely responsible for
him, as if I needed to make sure that he didn’t overstep the line any further.
By now, he and Anya had been joined by a brunette, and Sharaz was rubbing
against them both as they danced intimately. I felt helpless and rather guilty
as he descended further into moral oblivion.

Sharaz eventually returned to the table with
Anya on his right arm and the brunette on his left. He was now clearly drunk.

‘Bro, what’s wrong? Aren’t you enjoying
yourself?’

‘I’m okay, I’m just a little tired,’ I replied.
‘Listen, I think I’m going to make a move.’

‘Are you sure? The party is just starting.’ He
winked at Anya and she smiled back.

‘Yeah, it’s been a long day. You enjoy yourself,
buddy, let’s catch up another time.’

‘Suit yourself, party pooper! He’s missing out,
isn’t he, girls?’ They nodded in agreement. I wished goodbye to Hani, who was
now too drunk to care. Before leaving, I looked back at the table one last time
and saw that Sharaz had his tongue down Anya’s throat. It was clear his night
was only just beginning.

To do business successfully with an Emirati, you must
first win his favour and respect. You must spend hours with him sipping mint
tea, or smoking
shisha
in his home or his
majlis
. You must
indulge in a painful and tiring process of constant compliments, ego massaging
and flattery. You must courteously listen to endless stories about how his
children, cousins, brothers and nephews are excellent jockeys, falconers or
sword dancers. You must bring him flamboyant gifts with shiny wrapping paper
and huge bows, so that everybody around him will know he has been given a gift,
which affirms his importance; although he will never open the gift in public in
case he falls victim to the ‘evil eye’ of the jealous onlooker. You must laugh
at his every joke, no matter how ridiculous and unamusing, and you must listen
attentively to his laborious stories of how he has recently customised his sports
car with the most hideously ostentatious trimmings.

The Arabs are a nation of procrastinators, often
oblivious to the importance of deadlines, so you must accommodate his timelines
and rules. He will have no qualms about sending you on a wild goose-chase
around town in exchange for the privilege of his ear. And even after all of your
great effort he will often continue to string you along without a concrete
answer, simply answering
Insh’Allah
(‘God willing’), placing the all
important outcome firmly in the hands of God.

The most successful businesspeople in Dubai
were those who studied the idiosyncrasies of conducting business with the
Emiratis, and had developed the patience to persevere. The rewards were
substantial. Not only were they the biggest potential clients, but a good
rapport with an Emirati could open doors to
wasta
and unspeakable
riches. The most astute businesspeople knew that there were two things that excited
the passions of Emirati men more than anything else – horses and beautiful women
– and both were used to great effect as marketing tools by Dubai’s property
firms. The most astute brokers and developers used images of stallions in their
logos and marketing materials, and ramped up their sales teams with leggy blondes,
brunettes and redheads from Latvia to Brazil.

Like modern-day Geishas, these girls entertained
their clients with flirtation and playful innuendo, sometimes more. They knew
exactly how to play directly to the ego of the wealthy Arab. They would
compliment his expensive watch, laugh at his jokes and respond to his advances
to make him feel like he was simply irresistible – an Emirati sex god who could
do no wrong with the ladies. And when he was at his most vulnerable and
helpless, a brochure for a fifty-storey building would be subtly placed in
front of him with a contract to purchase five floors in cash.

***

‘Cameron? Is that you?’

He looked up before getting into the taxi. ‘Adam?’

‘Yes, it’s me!’

 ‘How the hell are you buddy?’

‘I’m great!’ I rushed over and gave him a hug.

‘What are you doing in Dubai?’ he asked.

‘I live out here now. I moved here a couple of
years ago.’ 

‘Fantastic! So you took my advice.’ He winked.

‘I did indeed.’

‘And isn’t this place everything I said it
would be?’

‘It’s amazing, Cameron. I gotta hand it to you,
you were right. Do you have time to catch up now over a coffee?’

Cameron looked at his watch. ‘For you, I make
time.’ He tipped the driver for the inconvenience and we headed to Starbucks,
which was only a short walk away.   

‘So have you made any serious money yet?’ asked
Cameron as he sipped on his skinny cappuccino.

‘I’m getting there,’ I smiled. ‘There have been
a few false starts, but I’m definitely on the right road now.’

‘Great!
Insha’Allah
, as they say.’

‘
Insha’Allah
, indeed.’

‘Well, Dubai has become a lot more competitive
since we last spoke back in London, that’s for sure. There were a lot fewer cowboys
then, believe me. Now every man and his dog is trying to make a quick buck in
the property game. But that’s not to say there aren’t still some big
opportunities to make money. So who are you working with?’

‘I work for Milestone Properties.’

He stared at me. ‘
The
Milestone?’

‘Yep. I’m Head of Investments there,’ I said
proudly.

‘Well done, old boy! You really did land on your
feet, didn’t you?’

‘Thanks, I guess so. So what brings you here?
Did you finally make the move yourself?’ I asked.

‘Not yet, buddy. But I’m doing a lot more out
here now than before. I made a killing on those villas in the Emirates Hills. I
went on to buy and flip a few more things in the Marina and the Waterfront, and
did well on that too. At the moment advising with a developer I know to help
them find a plot for their project.’

‘Can you tell me any more?’ I asked, curious.

‘Not really. It’s all a bit top secret; I’m
sworn to secrecy.’

‘I see. Well, just so you know, Milestone has
access to a number of plots across Dubai. If I can help in any way, I would be
glad to.’

‘I appreciate that. I’m really seeking an
iconic plot, perhaps something on the beachfront in the Marina. Although I know
such plots are virtually non-existent these days.’

My eyes lit up. ‘Cameron, I think we may have
just the one! It’s a Marina plot directly overlooking the beachfront. It’s the
last of its kind and we have direct access to it from Emaar.’

Cameron stared at me intensely. I could see he
was smelling a deal, just as I was. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes, of course. If you want me to get you the
details, it’s only a phone call away.’

Cameron leaned in close to whisper. ‘Okay,
Adam. What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential. Do you understand?’

‘Of course, Cam.’

He looked around and over both his shoulders
before continuing. ‘Have you heard of the Revolving Tower?’

 ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

‘Few people have – yet. It will be the world’s
first fully rotating building, a truly groundbreaking concept. Each floor will
rotate a full three hundred and sixty degrees in a single month. So today you
could be looking down the Sheikh Zayed Road and tomorrow watching the sunset over
the waters of the Gulf. Each floor will rotate at a different starting point,
so the building will also physically change shape as it moves over time. Just
imagine, an entire building in motion! Incredible.’

‘Are you serious? Is that even possible?’ I asked.

‘You better believe it is. The architect who
has designed it is a British man named Robert Hopkins. He is planning to build
one of these here, and in Moscow, London and New York. Dubai will be the first.
Robert is collaborating closely with a local developer called Escape
Investments. They have won the contract to build it, and I am working with them
directly to find the right plot for this project. If you’re telling me you have
exclusive access to a unique plot in the Marina that nobody else knows of, I
think we may have a deal.’

‘Cameron, let me go back tomorrow and check the
details, and I will let you know immediately.’

‘Do that. This is a landmark project and could
make us both a load of cash. Let’s move as quickly as we can. I will be waiting
for your call.’

‘Understood.’

‘The CEO of Escape Investments is an Emirati gentleman
called Karim Al Fasi. He trusts me and he is ready to move straight away.’

***

As soon as I got into the office the following
morning, I rushed over to Rav’s desk.

‘Rav, do we still have access to the plot in the
Marina from Emaar?’

‘Yes, we do,’ he replied while typing up an
email. ‘There have been a few enquiries from some of the sales guys, but
nothing serious yet. Why do you ask?’

‘I think I have a buyer!’

Rav stopped what he was doing. ‘A serious
buyer?’

‘As serious as serious can be.’

‘Okay, if you’re sure, we can set up a meeting
with Emaar as soon as possible.’

It was the good news I was desperate to hear
and I made the call to Cameron. ‘Cam, we have the plot. It’s direct to us and
we can meet Emaar when you’re ready.’

‘You beauty! I’m coming over to your offices
with Karim this afternoon.’

Karim and Cameron arrived at the Milestone
offices together soon after lunch. Karim was a middle-aged Emirati with a pot
belly and a receding hairline. He didn’t look like an Arab despite dressing in
the traditional
dishdasha
, as he was fairer than most with more European-looking
features. He was what was known as an
Ajam
, a descendant of Iranian
merchants who relocated to the Emirates in the 1920s. Although they were
officially just as Emirati as any other Arabs, it was said that the
Ajam
were sometimes distrusted by the Bedouin Arabs, as they were not considered
‘pure’
Khaliji
or Arabs of the ‘Gulf’..  

Cameron started with the introductions. ‘Karim,
this is the friend Adam from London I told you about. He is heading up the
investments division here at Milestone.’

‘It’s good to meet ya, buddy,’ said Karim, shaking
my hand vigorously. His accent surprised me, reminding me of a Sicilian mob
boss from Brooklyn.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Karim. I have to say
your accent doesn’t sound very Arabic.’

‘Yeah, I spent quite a few years out in New
York when I was growin’ up. I went to college at Stern and worked there for a
while, too. People call me the Emirati from the East village. So you’re from
London, right?’

‘Yes, born and bred.’ 

‘Fantastic, I love London. It is my favourite
city. I love to stay on Park Lane, shop in Harrods and party in China White.’ I
remembered the sheikhs from my days as a club promoter in London. Karim would
have fit in with them perfectly. ‘So, Cameron tells me you got this plot in the
Marina. I’m listening.’

I put the plans in front of him. ‘It’s a G plus
fifty plot with residential permission and a built-up area of a million square
feet. The plot is situated on the edge of the Marina opposite the Grosvenor
House hotel and offers unobstructed views of the ocean and the Palm Jumeirah.’

Karim scanned the plans eagerly. ‘Nice. Very
nice. Any indications on price?’

‘Not yet. But we think it should be somewhere
in the region of four and five hundred dirhams a square foot.’

‘Not bad. What you tell me so far sounds
promising. I like what I hear. Let’s set up the meeting with Emaar next week.
If this is what you say it is, we are ready to make an offer immediately.’

Rav set up the meeting with the CEO of Emaar
for me the following Monday. Rav and I attended from Milestone, along with
Karim and Cameron. The meeting couldn’t have gone better. Emaar confirmed their
interest in selling the plot, and Karim gave a soft commitment and agreed to
sign the papers in a week, after getting approval from his board of directors. It
was a far cry from my first sour plot deal with Jerome who claimed to ‘know a
guy’. This time I was sitting at the top table with Dubai property royalty, and
the deal was as good as done.

As we left the Emaar offices I punched the air
in triumph! There was only one thing on my mind now. I jumped into the back of
a taxi and headed straight to the Porsche garage. 

The Australian salesman spotted me immediately.
‘So nice to see sir has returned. Still
looking
, are we?’

I didn’t say a word and produced a cheque from
my inside pocket. ‘Oh what a joyous day, sir has finally become a man!’ He
snatched it from my fingertips with a huge smile. ‘So which one do we want,
sir?’

I pointed at the white 911 Turbo. ‘That one.’

‘Excellent choice, sir. As I said to you
before, there is a three-month waiting list, and the deposit is fully
refundable if sir happens to change his mind, but I assume that won’t be
happening?’

‘No, that certainly won’t be necessary. Unless
I decide on a Ferrari instead, of course.’

‘Oh, sir is in a funny mood today,’ he said
sarcastically as I signed the papers.

Leaving the garage that day was a turning point
in my life. I had just ordered the car I had wanted since my earliest memories.
I felt as if I had somehow arrived, and it brought a tear to my eye. Today was
the last piece in the puzzle; my life was complete.   

***

As I waited anxiously for the day of the contract signing,
Rav came over to my desk with a suggestion.

‘I have told Tariq about the meeting with Emaar. He is
pleased it went well. I think while we are waiting for the contract to be
signed, we need to keep Karim warm. Emiratis can be a little unpredictable, and
we don’t want any surprises.’

I nodded. ‘Sure, what do you have in mind?’

‘You should take Karim out on Friday night. Perhaps for a
meal? Milestone will cover all expenses, as long as they’re not too excessive...’

 I agreed, and arranged to pick Karim up from his home in
a rented chauffeur-driven black Mercedes to make a good impression. Karim’s villa
was on the Al Wasl road in Jumeirah, an exclusive community that was off limits
for non-Emiratis and home to some of the most prominent Emirati families. On
the way, we passed enormous villas, each with their own distinctive
architecture and style, from Gothic to ultra-contemporary to mock Tudor. We
finally pulled up at the gates of a mansion that looked like a Tuscan palace.
In front of the house were perfectly kept lawns where two Indian gardeners were
working away, sweating profusely in the desert heat. Parked ostentatiously in
front of the house was a yellow Ford Mustang, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom and a
white Range Rover. I manoeuvred my way around the cars and climbed the steps to
the huge oak front door before knocking. After some time, a tiny Filipina woman
opened and peered outside.