Dubai Mini-Break
When you live in Singapore, where is the obvious place for a mini-break with a friend from the UK? Clearly – Dubai. At a mere 7 hour flight away for both parties, it’s very convenient.
I arrived in Dubai in the middle of the night. After walking about 3 and a half miles, I arrived in the immigration queue, which showed no signs of wending its way to the man in a tea-towel hat (sorry) any time soon. Obviously I picked the wrong queue, and obviously again, when that queue didn’t move and I cunningly scuttled over to another one, the original queue raced along and I was stuck behind a (had to be) Russian woman in a mini-skirt and S&M style shoes for a considerable period of time. This at least gave me lots of time to stare surreptiously at people in the other queues. After Singapore, Dubai airport seemed exotically full of people from all races and creeds – appallingly dressed Russians for whom the 80s are still alive and well, large African ladies in bou-bous and headdresses, Arab men in dish-dashes (I think they use that term over tea-towels for some reason), worried looking Somalis, unattractive middle-aged white men with unfeasibly young and lithe Asian wives dressed head to toe in designer bling.
When I finally got out of the airport into the Dubai air, it hit me quite forcibly that despite the fact that it was now 2.30am, it was about 35 degrees, with a fierce hot wind blowing. I experienced that familiar panic I always get arriving at new places in the middle of the night – that I’ll never get to my hotel alive… luckily these fears proved groundless.
Finally arriving at our hotel, after being told by the taxi driver on the journey that this is the biggest building in the world, that is the biggest mall in the Gulf, the other is the best blah blah blah, I stumbled (it was now about 7am Sing time and I hadn’t slept a wink) over to the 70s style front desk and wondered what it was that had made the architect think that putting fake stone-cladding all over the reception area and filling the lobby full of wicker furniture would give the hotel an unrivalled air of class. I finally made it to our room, waking up Clarky who pretended to be pleased to see me at 3.30am.
I was expecting Dubai to be like Singapore – built up, hot, shiny. In fact Dubai is like nowhere else – half shiny bling, half dusty building site. Apparently there is no such thing as planning permission in Dubai so if you’re a rich Emerati (is that the right word?) you can buy land and build any random monstrosity on it. There are a lot of shiny buildings but not that many interesting ones – the exceptions are quite stunning, like the curvy office towers and the dhow-shaped Burj al Arab 7 star hotel. Which, by the way, didn’t let us pikeys even over the bridge which separates the hotel from the plebs on on the mainland – you need to book 3 days in advance just to have a drink, cough up a cover charge of £50 each, and wear proper shoes. It was the last one that clinched it. After 8 months in Singapore, I can’t imagine wearing any footwear other than flipflops – not for no-one, not even the poncy Burj al Wotsit. And anyway, the Luxe guide says it’s tacky inside, so I’ll comfort myself with that.
In 4 days we managed to pack in loads of stuff. We went to the old town – Deira – and poked around in the souks. The gold souk isn’t how we imagined it – I guess we both thought it would still be quite medieval with traders in exotic outfits plying their wares in narrow streets, with gold glinting from every corner, but it was a bit like a shopping centre in Milton Keynes where every shop was Ratners. Didn’t stop me buying a pearl bracelet though, and we got to try on lots of bling.
In the spice souk, we were invited to smell everything and identify the spice – we got quite good at it by the end – and were confidently shouting “sandalwood”, “dried lemons”, “cardamom” to the disappointed stall-owners who prefer to catch you out and then educate you, therefore obliging you to buy some of it.
There wasn’t much else to the old town. We did take an abra (boat) trip on the river at night which was very serene. The boatman steered with his feet and balanced his radio on his shoulder to get the latest football scores. It was one of those smug moments, where you get the “hurrah, I’m on holiday and doing a random thing” feeling.
Getting a taxi back from Deira was less fun. We learned afterwards that all the taxis were being herded to a conference centre so that the visitors wouldn’t think “this place is crap, there are no cabs”. No, we were left to think that instead. At one point, I was standing in the middle of a dual-carriageway, waving wildly at any passing car that looked taxi-ish, then Clarky saw a real cab, pegged it heroically across the road and managed to get the driver’s attention. By the time I made it over there the driver was still obstinately refusing to understand where we wanted to go when another Arab dude came over, shouted at him and said “70 dirhams, you take them for 70 dirhams”. So we got in, Arab dude went away and driver said “90 dirhams. He was other driver. You pay 90 dirhams”. By this point we were ready to hand over family members just to get home so we agreed.
Our hotel was on the beach. The beach was lovely – white sand, turquise water – despite being surrounded on all sides (even out to sea) by cranes and JCB diggers doing their thing. I’ve never been in water like that – the signboard said it was 33 degrees, it really was like being in a big bath. Only problem with the beach – it was hot as hades. Most days it was mid-40s. After living in hot countries before, I thought I would be fine with the heat and that Clarky would struggle after the dreadful UK summer, but turns out she was fine with it and I was the one who felt that someone had a giant vacuum cleaner and was sucking all the moisture from my body for some nefarious purpose. With the dust and the hot wind, it was like being sandblasted. Walking 5 minutes from a taxi to a shopping centre would reduce me to complete exhaustion. Needless to say, despite the searing heat, which really was Sahara-like, the beach was full of neon-pink Brits sitting happily cancering away secure in the knowledge that several hours ago they had dutifully applied the factor 8.
Dubai is all about the shopping. Lacking the budgets to hit the designer malls, we set off for the knock-off gear section of the city. The taxi driver dumped us in a nondescript, dusty (I guess that’s becoming a bit of a theme) part of town, with some tired looking shops along one side. The gear inside was pretty decent, allowing us to pick up nice presents for other halves without denting the beer and spa money too much. One guy came over to us and stage-whispered “you want illegal?”. What – immigrants? Child porn? Snuff movies? Who did he think we were?! No… bags and shoes. While knock off clothes is tolerated, bags and shoes are contraband and hidden. So we agreed and the guy took us round the back, down an alley and through a door into a tiny office with bookshelves and files. He went through another door and got a key. Then he took the files off the bookshelves and then the bookshelves themselves. Then he opened a secret door in the wall and led us Narnia-like, through the bookcase into a room full of Louis Vuitton bags and Prada shoes! It was great, and felt suitably illegal.
We signed up for the standard cheesy desert expedition and as the 2 young (ish) girls in a party where the other 4 were older couples, we got shoved in the back of the van and mercifully didn’t have to talk to the loud American man who was trying to make friends with everyone so he could talk at them. The people carrier thing was all set up for “wadi (dune) bashing” and we set off at a worrying pace up, down and over high, slippery sand dunes. It was less fun than I expected and made us feel rather sick. Then one of the other vehicles got stuck, slid all the way down a dune and nearly overturned and that wasn’t great fun either. There’s something about being stuck in the back of a mini-van that takes the sense of adventure out of it and makes it feel more like a road accident waiting to happen.
After the ride, we arrived at the camp and settled down to an array of delights including a scarily-made up greasy-looking belly dancer who got a bunch of people up dancing a la Butlins / Costa del Pikey, some decent scoff and a henna tattoo lady who was amazing. I know henna is a bit teenage / Womad / long flowy skirt but somehow cooler done in a real live desert under the stars. Best bit (I think) was the camel ride, which made me as excited as a small child at the fair.. when there are no parrots in sight, camels will do to kindle the Oldham joy.
That night we had planned to get back and go somewhere cool and funky (being cool and funky like what we are), but we were tired so sat in our single beds, ate dodgy Dubai potato snacks and watched “Black Cloud” which for anyone not fortunate enough to have seen it, is a very moving native Indian / boxing / romance type movie, and the actors are not at all wooden. And better than Splash 2 which we’d watched the night before.
We did get to cool places on other nights. One night we went with Clarky’s mate to the Buddha Bar which was extremely lovely with lots of shimmery fabrics and lights and a giant buddha, and to the Arabic castle style bar at the “One and Only.. something Hotel” where we lazed around on sofas ordering G&Ts with a flick of the wrist and a dent of the bank balance. And the Lime Tree Cafe for lunch which we finally found (unwisely I was initially in charge of finding it which everyone knows is a mistake) where they had the most amazing salads and cakes, including a cake so luscious that Clarky and I both have a picture of it as wallpaper on our mobiles to remind us of that glorious cake moment.
And no trip to Dubai would be complete without… skiing. It’s the obvious thing to do in a desert. I was a bit terrified as I am the world’s least sporty person and immediately lose all skills of balance and co-ordination when faced with a ball / wakeboard / pair of skis and a snowy slope. Clarky zipped off to be cool and race down the hill Ski Sunday style, while I lined up with 2 older Aussie ladies and a cocky local kid who thought he knew it all and therefore kept falling down. Excellent – maybe I had a chance of not being the most retarded member of the group. On the flat all was good. I could put on my skis and take them off. I could put one ski on and skid on it by propelling with my other foot. I could lean forward in my skis. I could walk around. I could even (almost) lie in the snow and push myself up. I was sorted.
First challenge – walk with your skis to the moving walkway up the hill (ok – baby slope), stay upright on moving walkway, then slide elegantly off moving walkway at the top and continue motion to rest of the group. Up to walkway – tick. Up hill on walkway – no worries. Off walkway… straight on my arse. The only one to do so.
The next challenge – ski, yes, actually ski – down the hill, moving your legs out in the correct (i.e. crazy and completely counter-intuitive) manner to slow yourself down gracefully. Ha bloody ha. Skiing i.e. moving down the slope by natural gravity and slidiness – no worries there. Lean forward in your skis on a slippery snowy slope – are you insane? Kick your legs out so you nearly do the splits so you can “stop”? Oh no. I have a much better strategy. Stand kind of upright but stick your bum out, wave your arms around wildly and squeal like a tiny girl when the fierce instructor, finally despairing of getting me to do it right by shouting “relax” in my face, kicks my feet out to the side and looks disgusted when I screech wildly at him.
By the end I could kind of do it, a bit, but the instructor kindly informed me that “you are not actually skiing”. Well thanks. But at least I didn’t storm off in a strop like I’d felt like doing so I think we’ll call that a victory.
All in all, Dubai gets 5 mini-break stars. It’s not remotely cheap or convenient to get to, but it is quite exotic in its own bizarre way, and well worth a visit.
Jo 21 September 2007
Messages
Commenting is closed for this article.
I like flowers and sunshine. My favrite colour is blue, even tho I’m a girl. Are there nice flowers in Singa por?
Gina (Age 7) # Oct 1
Gina,
Stop wasting internet bandwidth with your pointless drivel. Never post here again.
Fraser # Oct 5
Why, if I ever find you Fraser (if that is your real name), I’m going to kick your ass for being so mean to my little sweetie
Gina's Dad # Oct 5
I’d like to see you try, fat man! I move like a seed in a brisk wind, and punch like a train with no delays due to signal failures. I’d pulverise you and blow your dust all over Singapore.
Fraser # Oct 5
It has come to our attention that a recent post on this site refers to dust in Singapore. We would like to assure all readers that there is no dust in Singapore.
Thank you.
Singapore Public Cleansing Department # Oct 5
I like trees and kittens too.
Gina (Age 7) # Oct 5
Dammit Gina! I told you not to post here. Now I’m gonna have to beat your Daddy.
Fraser # Oct 5
No, actually she’s annoying me too now. Gina, go help your mother in the canal. No flowers, trees or kittens for you today.
Gina's Dad # Oct 5
It has come to our attention that a recent post on this site refers to fighting in Singapore. We would like to assure all readers that there is no fighting in Singapore. Except possibly against the Malaysians.
Thank you.
Singapore Public No-Fighting Department # Oct 5