Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (8 page)

Finding a reasonably priced apartment in Dubai
in late 2004 was virtually impossible. With the huge influx of immigrant
workers who had converged on the city, there was simply not enough property to
cater for the sudden increase in demand. Unscrupulous landlords had seized the
opportunity to inflate their rates to extortionate levels and so even property
in the city’s less affluent neighbourhoods had become completely unaffordable.

To make matters worse, most rent cheques in
Dubai were required as a single up-front payment for the year. More merciful
landlords agreed to divide this into two, but this was always at the cost of an
increment on the total rent due for the year. If you refused, there was a
waiting list of ten others who were just as desperate for somewhere to live. As
a result, rent had become by far the largest expense for Dubai residents. Flat
shares and sublets were common, even though they were officially illegal. It
was not unusual for low-income workers to share single rooms with ten or even
twelve others, and many were forced to accept the most intolerable living
conditions to retain something to survive on from their humble salaries.

The rock-bottom scenario for every Western
Dubai expat was being priced out of the market and having to consider living in
the neighbouring Emirate of Sharjah, where rents were much more affordable. But
Sharjah was not Dubai. There was no booze, no poolside lounges and certainly no
brunches. Life there was conservative and chaotic, the roads were dusty and
barren, and the residents cold and unfriendly. Moving to Sharjah from Dubai was
not just downgrading your location; it was downgrading your identity. To tell
people in Dubai that you lived in Sharjah was like pulling out a gun and
committing social suicide. But sadly, it seemed that for me, Sharjah was
becoming an ever-looming possibility.

Studio apartment near Burjuman shopping
centre. Bachelor wanted. AED 5,500 PCM.

It was the only one that vaguely matched my
price range, so I rang up immediately to book a viewing.

‘Yes?’ shouted an angry voice down the phone.

‘Erm, hello, I’m calling about the
advertisement about a room near the Burjuman Centre.’

There was a pause, followed by some offline
shouting in Arabic. ‘Where you from?’

‘Do you mean which country am I from?’

‘Yes, where you from, where you from?’ he
shouted again.

‘Erm, I’m British.’

‘British! Very nice, welcome to Dubai! Yes, of
course my friend, we have a very good room, just for you.’ His tone seemed to
have changed suddenly. ‘Come to the apartment at six tonight. I will show you a
very nice room.’

So after work I took a taxi to Bur Dubai, the
older quarter of the city. The cab dropped me at the entrance of the Bab Al
Shams building, which translated in Arabic as the ‘Gateway to Sunshine’. But as
I stood outside the crumbling structure, it seemed clear that the building had
not seen a sunny day for years. It was one of the older buildings in Bur Dubai
and it certainly showed its age. The bricks were crumbling and the windows were
filthy with sand and mud. I cautiously walked into the dark, unlit lobby and
pushed the dirty elevator button to the third floor. A series of ominous
screeching noises followed, which sounded strangely like a cat was stuck in the
lift shaft. After a few nervous minutes the lift arrived, but I decided at the
last moment not to take the risk and climbed the stairs instead.

The long hallway of the third floor smelt like
baked beans and sick, and I had no choice but to cover my nose. After three
knocks on the faded wooden door of apartment seven, a hairy, overweight
Egyptian man with a ponytail and a food-stained vest opened it.

‘Yes, what you want?’ he sneered at me. I
recognised his voice from the telephone.

‘I made an appointment to see the room for
rent. I’m the British guy.’

The fat man paused for a moment and a change
came over his demeanour. ‘Ah yes, my friend! How are you? Come in, come in!’ He
opened the door and welcomed me inside. His body odour was unbearable. ‘You
don’t look like British, you look Arab.’ 

‘Yes, I get that a lot.’

‘The room is this way. You will like it.’ As we
walked through the dusty hallway there were odd noises of crashing pots and
voices from the other rooms. ‘Come, come, follow me.’

I followed him into the bedroom and he switched
on the light. It was a tiny box room with cracking walls and broken floorboards,
and it smelt of detergent. A dim light bulb swinging from an unhealthy chord
struggled to provide some illumination, and the small window looked out onto
the brick wall of the adjacent building. The only piece of furniture was a
single bunk bed in the corner that had clearly seen better days.

‘Is this the only furniture I would get?’ I
enquired with concern.

‘My friend, what furniture you want?’

‘Well, a decent bed perhaps. And maybe a desk
and a wardrobe?’

‘No problem, my friend, I get you a new bed,
and desk and anything else you want.’ Considering his forthcoming manner, I was
compelled to throw in a request for a snooker table and a Jacuzzi, but I held
back out of politeness.

‘Who else lives here? I heard some noises from
the other rooms as we walked in,’ I asked.

A nervous expression came over his face. ‘It’s
just some friends of mine. They will be leaving very soon. You don’t worry!’

As we walked back through the hall towards the
kitchen, I noticed that one bedroom door was left ajar. I peered curiously inside
and saw at least fifteen men lying in rows on the floor on worn mattresses.
They were mostly of South Asian origin, although a couple of them looked like
Filipinos. A makeshift partition made of unfolded cardboard boxes had been erected
to divide the tiny room into two crude areas. I made eye contact with one of
the men, an emaciated Indian who looked worryingly malnourished and exhausted.
He stared at me with forlorn eyes, although he didn’t say a word. I quickly
gathered that I had walked into some kind of makeshift labour camp for Dubai’s labouring
underclass. But before I could say anything, the fat Egyptian slammed the door
shut and ushered me towards the lobby, annoyed by my curiosity.

‘So, my friend, you want to sign the contract?’
he asked assertively, clearly worried that what I had just witnessed may change
my mind.

‘Erm, I need to have a little think.’

He groaned. ‘You know, I have four other people
who have given me a cheque. If you don’t want the room, I will give it to somebody
else.’ When I didn’t reply, he quickly reined in his anger and changed his
manner again. ‘But I like your face, so I want you to live here, because you
look like Arab, so I will wait until tomorrow for you. Okay?’

‘I appreciate that.’ 

‘Okay, my friend. I will wait for your call,’
he smiled.

I thanked him for his time and rushed down the
stairs and out of the building as fast I could without looking back.

Since meeting Jerome, I could think of nothing else but
closing the deal. It was for opportunities like these that I had gambled on
Dubai in the first place, and if I wasn’t going to reach out and grab them I
may as well have been back in my dreary job in London. But there remained just
one obstacle in the way of unspeakable riches: I didn’t have a buyer, and
neither did I have a clue where to begin looking for one.

I thought about blasting out an email to
friends and colleagues back in London, but it was unlikely anybody I knew would
be looking for a plot of land in Dubai. I considered putting an advertisement
in the local press, but with the huge number of property classifieds in the
daily newspapers, mine was certain to be swamped and unnoticed. Who was I
kidding? I had no price, no idea of the location and no leads. It was a lost
cause. After an agonising week of racking my brain, I decided to join Hani and
his friend Sami over a bite and a
shisha
in the Dubai Marina to clear my
mind.

The Marina was a popular spot for Dubai’s
residents to spend their evenings at its many restaurants and
shisha
lounges. Less than five years ago, the vast site on which the Marina sat had
been a barren wasteland. Today it was a sprawling community of condominiums and
skyscrapers, housing much of Dubai’s affluent migrant community; a bastion of the
city’s aspirational lifestyle. We met at an outdoor Lebanese restaurant in the
heart of the promenade, surrounded by a multitude of residential apartment
blocks, palm trees and luxury yachts. The Marina was buzzing as usual tonight
with families, groups of friends and young couples grabbing a bite or having a
stroll along the walkway under the star-filled sky.   

‘So how is life in banking, buddy? Are you
making the big dough?’ asked Hani as my strawberry-flavoured
shisha
arrived.

‘Not yet, I’m still working on it. You know,
things take a lot longer in Dubai than I thought.’

‘Welcome to the real Dubai, my friend! From the
outside this place looks like the perfect city. But Dubai is not the West and
many people forget that. This is a new city with all the teething problems of
an emerging market,’ said Hani. Sami nodded in agreement. ‘You know what Dubai
is?’ Hani continued. ‘It’s a third-world country with a first-world face.’

‘I guess you’re right and I’m learning it the
hard way,’ I replied with a sigh. ‘Sami, how’s everything in the website design
world?’

‘Things are good,
habibi
. Work is crazy
busy at the moment. There are new businesses starting in this city every day
and they all need a website, so I am working flat out.’

‘What types of businesses?’ I asked.

‘You name it. Recruitment firms, PR agencies,
events management companies, luxury yacht brokers… Everybody believes they can
start a company and get rich in Dubai.’

‘Wow...’

‘And that’s not including all the property
related business! I would still say 80 per cent of our work is real estate
related. I spend most of my time designing websites for new property agents,
developers or other real estate service providers. Actually, just this morning
I was in a meeting with the CEO of a new developer called Darius Developments.
Very impressive guy. They are planning to launch five new projects in Dubai by
the end of the year and are actively looking for plots. We are helping them
build their corporate identity and brand.’

I almost choked on my pipe. ‘Did they say
where?’

‘Where?’ Sami looked confused.

‘Where they are looking for plots?’ I repeated
impatiently.

‘No, not specifically, but they said something
about building a land bank in prime locations across the city. The CEO is
called Saff Haque, a British Pakistani guy. He seems like he’s on the ball. You
know, I think they will soon be a serious player in the development market.’

I jumped out of my seat, threw a hundred dirhams
on the table and ran for the taxi stand.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ shouted Hani.

‘I gotta rush home. I’ll explain later.’

I ran out of the taxi and into my hotel room. I
immediately googled ‘Darius Developments Dubai’ and an article popped up
entitled ‘Dubai’s New Kid on the Block’. And there it was, an interview with
the CEO Saff Haque about how the company planned to build five landmark
commercial and residential towers in the city’s best locations, and was actively
in the market for plots of land. Saff looked impressive in the picture, a well-groomed,
middle-aged man in a sharp pinstriped suit. Surely he was the buyer I had been
looking for. I simply had to speak to him.

So the following morning while at work, I found
an unused meeting room and made the call.

‘Good afternoon, Darius Developments,’ answered
the female operator in a nasal Arabic accent.

‘Good afternoon. May I speak with Saff Haque
please?’

‘I’m afraid Saff is in a meeting.’

‘Ah, do you know when he may be available?’

‘I’m sorry, he has a full schedule today.’

‘I see. And tomorrow?’

‘He is completely booked tomorrow too.’

I was rattled by her blunt responses. ‘Okay.
Well, can you perhaps suggest when may be a good time to catch him?’

‘No sorry, I can’t.’

‘I see, well I guess I’ll call back another…’
She hung up before I could finish, and just like that my chance had disappeared
into thin air.

I felt like a total loser. My single lead had
disappeared in a puff of smoke because I couldn’t even get past the gatekeeper.
Pathetic. I had blown my only shot and I was back firmly at square one.

But it couldn’t be over, not like this. There
was just too much at stake to give up so easily. Any other day, I would have
quit, but not today. After a few moments of moping, something made me pick
myself up and try again.

‘Good morning, Darius Developments,’ answered
the same monotonal voice.

‘Gooood morning, who am I speaking with please?’

‘This is Norah. How can I help?’

‘Good morning, Norah. Wow, Norah, that’s a
lovely name! Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?’

There was a pause. ‘I am Lebanese, actually.’

‘Wow, really? You’re so lucky! Lebanon is such
a beautiful country. I love the food, the music, the history.’

‘Thanks! Yes, it’s a beautiful country. Have
you been there?’

‘Not yet. But I’m dying to go. I really am. I
just don’t know anybody there to show me around.’

‘Well, if you’re going I can connect you to
some of my friends who live there if you like. They can show you a good time.’

‘Wow, you would do that for me?’

‘Of course, my pleasure!’

‘You’re too kind, thank you. I’m so glad we
spoke today, Norah.’

‘No problem.’

‘By the way, Norah, is Saff Haque around? I am
a business associate of Mr Haque and he asked me to call him back. It’s quite
urgent.’

‘Sure. Just give me a second, I will put you
right through.’

I punched the air in triumph. ‘Hello, Saff
speaking,’ a voice eventually said in a crisp British accent.

‘Good morning, Saff. My name is Adam and I am
an employee of Imperial Bank. I apologise for the unsolicited call, I know
you’re a busy man so I won’t take too much of your time. I have heard from a
senior colleague that your firm is looking to purchase plots in Dubai?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘Great. I may have exactly what you are looking
for.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well, through one of our affiliates we have
access to a prime piece of land that has come directly from government sources.
It is in a key location and has not been exposed to the market.’

‘Okay, can you tell me where the plot is?’
asked Saff. It was the question I had been dreading.

‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information at
this stage. But can I ask which locations you would be looking for?’

‘Well, there are two areas on our radar
currently: the Business Bay and the Marina. Can you at least tell me if it is
in one of these?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t on the phone, but I suggest
we meet up to discuss what we have and I can share some further details then.
How does that sound?’

There was a pause. ‘Okay, sure, how about
tomorrow evening? Say, nine at the Montgomerie golf club?’

‘Erm, that’s perfect. See you tomorrow at nine.’

‘Who’s the man!’ I screamed the second I hung
up. I had just engineered a meeting with the CEO of one of the city’s new
property developers from nothing! Sure, I didn’t have the location, the plans
or the price, but it was a start. I was tempted to call Jerome right way and
tell him the good news, but I held back. I wanted to be completely sure that Saff
was in a position to buy first, so I decided it was best to tell Jerome after
the meeting. The following evening, I jumped in a cab and made my way to meet Saff
as agreed.

En route, I got talking to my driver about life
in the city. I always enjoyed my conversations with taxi drivers; they were the
real ears and eyes in Dubai and their stories and observations often exposed
hidden truths never mentioned in the newspapers and travel guides. Their claims
were usually unsubstantiated, of course. But like so many other aspects of life
in Dubai, the fine line between reality and fantasy was blurred, which made
their stories even more intriguing.

‘Can I ask you something, buddy?’ I asked my
driver.

‘Please sir, tell me,’ he replied willingly.

‘Is there really no crime in Dubai?’ It was a
question I had been burning to ask for a while and I was looking forward to his
view.

‘Sir, there is many crime in Dubai! But you
will never hear of it,’ he replied.

‘Can you give me an example?’ I asked, curious.
 

‘Do you know the story of the Russian
businessman at Burj Al Arab?’

‘No, I haven’t heard that one.’

An ominous look came over his face. ‘Oh sir,
very bad story.’

‘I would love to hear it.’ It sounded like a
thriller; I couldn’t wait.

‘Sir, only two months ago, a big Russian
businessman was staying in Burj Al Arab hotel. Very rich and powerful man. He
was in Dubai for one week only. So he wanted to buy some beautiful jewels for his
wife, you know, because he want to impress her.’

‘As you do,’ I said with a smile. 

‘Yes, sir. So he called one big Indian
jewellery company in Dubai to bring his best jewels to show him in his room. He
said money is no problem. He will pay anything. Thinking he will make a big
profit, the Indian jeweller took his very best diamonds, rubies, gold, silver
and sapphires in his suitcase to Burj Al Arab hotel. He takes $4.5 million
worth of jewels to show to Russian businessman. He is thinking he will make the
biggest sale of his life. Big money.’

This was getting juicy. ‘Okay, so what
happened?’

‘So he travels to Burj Al Arab hotel, to show
his jewels. And then he never comes home. He completely disappeared. The
jeweller’s wife is going crazy, his family is worried. He just vanished.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘After a few days, there is a bad, how you say,
smell in Burj Al Arab. It is coming from Russian man’s room. The police come to
the hotel and break open the door. They find Indian jeweller’s body hanging in
the bedroom cupboard. He is stabbed to death, and Russian and jewels is gone.
Nobody ever see Russian man again.’ I was speechless. ‘So you see there is many
crimes in Dubai, sir.’

‘Is that a true story?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir, true story.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘My cousin is the bell boy at Burj Al Arab
hotel. He saw everything. And my cousin never told a lie in his life.’

We took our exit off the Sheikh Zayed Road and
entered the Emirates Hills development. Nicknamed ‘Millionaire’s Row’, it was considered
the most exclusive neighbourhood in Dubai due to its high concentration of
ultra-wealthy residents. The Montgomerie Golf Club was nestled in the centre of
the Hills, and many of the villas looked out onto its groomed world-class
fairways. I remembered how Cameron had described it to me back in London months
ago. It was just as idyllic as he had said, with countless palm trees, dancing
fountains and meandering lakes. As we passed the ostentatious villas, I
wondered which of them was Cameron’s.

I arrived at the clubhouse a little earlier
than nine, so I ordered a cappuccino and waited for Saff inside. Observing the
tables around me, it was obvious that the Montgomerie was the preferred social
haunt of well-to-do Western expats. Groups of European men shared a round of pints
after eighteen holes and expat wives sipped on expensive red wine while their
husbands finished up on the floodlit driving range outside. The only non-white
faces in the club were the Indian waiters, who were rushing around tirelessly
to serve and please.

I recognised Saff instantly from his picture.
He was tall, slim and immaculately dressed in an elegant tailor-made suit with
a matching salmon tie and handkerchief. I stood up to welcome him.

‘Glad to meet you,’ he said in a polished
English accent as he shook my hand firmly.

‘Likewise, thanks for taking the time,’ I
replied. ‘I know you’re a busy man.’ 

‘No, not at all. It’s always a pleasure to meet
a fellow British Pakistani.’

I froze, surprised. ‘How did you know I was British
Pakistani?’

‘Well, I’m the same, so I guess I could tell as
soon as I saw you. We seem to be a rare breed over here, right?’

‘Wow, Saff, you’re the first person I have come
across in this city who has worked that out. Most people think I’m an Arab until
they hear me speak. Then they’re completely confused.’

‘Ha-ha, I’m not surprised to hear that. I’m
sure you’ve also noticed that we “Brit-Paks” somewhat disturb the ethnic
hierarchy of this crazy place.’