the mall has it all

...including indoor ski slopes, giant aquariums, and front-door parking for Lamborghinis and Maseratis.

reaching for the sky

My friends, I give you the world's tallest man-made structure: Burj Khalifa.
At 828 metres— that's 2,717 feet— the Burj is so tall that my little camera could not fit the entire thing in it, no matter what angle I shot from. I tried up close, I tried a little farther away, but this is the very best I could do. It was entertaining to watch all the tourists and locals crouching down and bending backward, trying to fit the tower in their own cameras.


The Burj is actually quite stunning. It reminds me of some sort of beautiful mythical tower in a science fiction movie, stabbing the sky and gleaming in the sunlight. It was originally named Burj Dubai, but when Dubai found itself stuck in the middle of an economic crisis, neighbouring Abu Dhabi bailed out the emirate and renamed the tower Burj Khalifa, after Sheikh Khalifa, President of the United Arab Emirates and emir of Abu Dhabi.

Most of the region's workforce is made up of migrant workers from South Asia— this is apparent everywhere you turn your head in Dubai. Your cabdrivers, cashiers, waiters and waitresses, hotel concierges and construction workers are all from somewhere else— people who needed to leave home in order to provide. According to Wiki, there are some labour-related controversies that surround the Burj, namely that labourers and skilled workers were making less than eight dollars a day back in 2006, and working and living in "abysmal" conditions.

Looking at the exquisite, shining structure, I can't help but wonder about all the people who lent their hands, backs and sweat in making this building rise to such a height, and I remember a drive down California's coast a few years ago, where in the blistering sun, under faded straw hats, I saw a small army of Mexicans bent over in the fields, picking tiny red chilies for American mouths.


This world is often an incomprehensible place, and I am thankful for what I have.

build, build

In spite of the economic climate, Dubai continues to grow.

all is not lost

I am home sweet home, reflecting on what was a mind-boggling experience over the past three days. Dubai, Dubai. A city erupted from sand— extravagant, extraordinary, excessive. Shopping mall upon shopping mall, construction and empty buildings, Lamborghinis, Bentleys and Maseratis, ladies in saris, halter-tops and abayat. It doesn't feel real.

I had searched road signs and buildings for familiarity, and while there was hardly anything recognisable left, to my joy, I discovered that I can still read some Arabic. Knowing that somewhere in the folds of my brain, I still know that مرحبا spells marhaba and means hello, fills me with the most astounding sense of satisfaction and triumph. Boosted by this revelation, I began reading every sign aloud, even if I didn't know the meaning of the word— funny enough, it was in Dubai that I first learned to read in English too.


I love Arabic. It's beautiful when spoken, and even more so written.

behind dubai

So what's behind the glitz and the glamour? Is there more to this oasis than record-breaking buildings and Maseratis? I remember a bazaar called a souk, by the water, where ladies in abayat, sari and jeans would haggle over golden bangles and spices instead of shopping at Tiffany and Carrefour. I remember my mother taking me to a fabric store that smelled of incense, where nearby we snacked on Indian samosas and sipped on hot chai. I remember sandy buildings with antennae branching from rooftops and gaudy glowing signs, advertising electronics and household goods in flowing Arabic and blocky English. Where did it all go? Was it all buried beneath construction sites like ancient relics?

I dragged Natasha into a cab and asked the driver to take us to the Gold Souk, which is where I thought as a child I was enchanted by glittery charms and barrels of saffron, but when we arrived, I wondered if in fact, it was the Spice Souk I had in mind. No matter, we had finally found Old Dubai.



There were only three things I wanted to do on this trip: walk in sand, buy a khamsa to ward off the evil eye, and eat a samosa. On the way to a silver shop, we passed a magenta-coloured hole in the wall café (if you can call it that) with a basket of samosas on the counter, and various other tasty Indian treats. I immediately popped inside, and found myself the centre of attention— everyone within this tiny shop was male, and it was as if none of them had ever seen a woman before, by the way I was being gawked at. I suddenly wished I was invisible, but my stomach's voice was far louder than my sense of fear, so I held my head up and ordered two samosas.

They were pretty good.


One of my favourite symbols, the khamsa, also known as the Hand of Fatima to Muslims or the Hand of Miriam to Jews, is a hand with an eye in its palm. The khamsa actually predates Islam and Judaism, and is thought to have originated with the ancient Phoenicians— although the eye in the hand is a common symbol in many ancient cultures. I could go on and on about the history of the khamsa— I once wrote a paper on the symbolism of Egyptian Bedouin jewellery which heavily featured the Hand of Fatima, but I'll instead tell you a brief little story about the khamsa in my life.

When I was around five or so, I was given a small gold khamsa with a turquoise eye on a delicate golden chain. I imagine my mother or one of my aunties gave it to me, but as I was very little, I don't remember exactly who.
I do remember wearing it proudly, loving the colour of the turquoise against the gold filigree fingers. It was one of my most prized possessions and it hung around my neck every day. One day the eye fell out and I was crushed— I was afraid to tell my mother because I felt I had done something bad, losing the eye— but I was told that the eye fell out because it had protected me from harm, that it fell out keeping me safe, which comforted me. My mother had the turquoise replaced with a green stone, and I continued to wear my khamsa until I got to that silly age when a child stops believing in the magic and preciousness of small things. I associate Dubai with that hand, and though I can find one in the bazaar in Istanbul, I wanted one from Dubai, and I found one— in a tiny silver shop where I was offered Indian chai, while I negotiated on a price.


Everywhere you look in Dubai, you see people from all over the world. According to Wikipedia, less than 20% of the emirate's population is composed of United Arab Emirates nationals— and about 85% of the expatriates living in Dubai come from Asia, most of them from India. Much of my memory of Dubai is coloured by saris, scented by curries and flavoured by chai.

opulence

Today I was lucky enough to be invited for high tea and a tour at the famous Burj Al Arab. Rising from the gulf with the impression that it's about to sail away into the sky, this 321 metre tower is supposed to be the world's only seven star hotel. The exterior is truly a magnificent sight, yet the interior was not unlike a Vegas hotel; wildly coloured with clashing patterns and an abundant, flamboyant use of gold. Stepping through the door, I felt like I had entered some kind of fantastical palace— a small man in an embroidered uniform walked the lobby with a censer that filled the space with the most heavenly scent. Water leapt joyously from an enormous tiered fountain, and the light, oh the light— it could only be described as divine. It was another world, and with one look up through the 180 metre atrium, I felt my knees tremble.


There are 202 bedroom suites that go anywhere from $2000–$28,000 a night! Nearly all the fixtures and accents in the suites are either gold plated or gold leaf. The bathroom is stocked with Hermès products— and this I found rather amusing— there is a giant gilded mirror right over the bed. I suppose one might never notice the stunning views of the gulf and the city, what with the view from lying on your back!



The Burj Al Arab and nearby Jumeirah Beach Hotel have replaced what was once the Chicago Beach Hotel, where as a girl, I spent loads of time building sandcastles and swimming in the sea. During our brief return when I was fourteen, my best friend and I would laze away afternoons secretly sipping strawberry daiquiris and munching on fried kalamari before a dip in the water.

bees in the desert

When I was three, my tongue was introduced to the acrobatics of Arabic.
Our little family had moved halfway across the world to a city in the middle of a vast desert, called Dubai. Time has eroded my memory of this beautiful language. Suddenly a bright-eyed seven year old girl, I left Dubai for Turkey, replacing the deep music of Arabic with Turkish.

I remember the Dubai of my childhood faintly, but colourfully. I remember how the sand could be yellow, and at times orange. I remember the lonely two-laned highway that greyly stretched into the desert. I remember the smell of the oleander in our school yard, the taste of sugar cane juice on my lips, and the paper-like bougainvillea that cascaded in a magenta waterfall from the tiny balcony of my bedroom.

Once, to my delight and fear, I discovered a colony of bees had built a home amongst the flowers, and the dread of getting stung was overshadowed by my curiosity and wonder at the day to day movements of the little insects. Inevitably, the day arrived when a man with a giant moustache and a knife came to remove my buzzing neighbours. I remember him as being tall and dark, with fiery eyes and a turban, his knife a gleaming machete— whether or not my imagination transformed his appearance into something of a mythical nature, I will never know.

I returned to Dubai when I was fourteen, and discovered that these storybook memories had been replaced by bright highways, cold steel and glass skyscrapers, and where the endless sand crept, green, green grass grew.

While I enjoy the free wireless at Doha International Airport, killing time before my connecting flight, I can't help but wonder what lies in store for me. I have followed the development of this ever-changing Emirate with my unchanging curiosity, and know that there will be little remaining, if any, of my childhood. The life I lived then has long since blown away with the sand, and I will very soon walk unfamiliar streets a woman, grateful for having known such extraordinary things.