Depressing Dubai

I write from the Emirates Business Class lounge at Dubai International Airport. Chris and I are en-route to our "honeymoon" in the Maldives. While he scouts the bookshop for beach reading, I sip a Pinot Grigio and ponder this place that so disappoints me whenever I travel through here. We couldn’t meet up with our friends H&H today, since our flight was earlier than expected, though we will see them on the way back in a week. Both high school classmates of mine, they have lived here for probably about three to five years, and will tell you there is nothing to do her but work, and go to the mall.

We arrived around 1100 and headed straight to Terminal 1 to check our bags before catching a cab to City Center, the huge mall not far from the airport. Not because we like shopping, but because we have realized that in many ways, we are more isolated in Kabul than we were in Baghdad. We have no APO, no US phone number and therefore little direct access to services and communication, and there comes a time when every one needs a new pair of shoes or pants. Enter Dubai. The place that has come to serve as our three-monthly stock-check of necessities and not-so-necessary items.

In the mall we find a salon for the pre-beach de-hairing desires. Chris for a haircut and shave, and I for a wax. In the tiny stock closet-cum-treatment room, the Filipino woman covers the bed with a large paper towel. I strike up a conversation with her. She has been in Dubai for three years; she has only been home once. They have to pay their own way for everything, and I can attest to the fact that prices are skyrocketing in Dubai, a trend which apparently do not extend to salaries.

She has two daughters, one in high school and another in college doing "mass media", though she was not quite sure what that entails, and explained that this one wants to be an air stewardess, adding that family members fly for only 10% of the ticket price. We talk about my work, she knows what an NGO is. She asks about Kabul. Apparently some guys have been trying to recruit some of them to come and open a salon there. We make more small talk. Why Dubai I ask, why now? She explains the family business of bag-manufacturing which perished at the hands of China a few years ago, necessitating her to move to this heartless city, leaving her family behind, just so they can survive. I leave her a 25% tip, Chris is shocked at how much I can learn from someone in forty minutes.

It is 1400 on a Thursday, the mall is packed. The restaurants overflow, the shops are overrun by people dashing between "sale" signs and fitting rooms. Women in hajibs nonchalantly shop for lingerie that would make Paris Hilton blush, and I look for bikinis. We find Chris a nice pair of Aldo sandals; he only tried about forty pairs before settling on one. We go to Woolworths (the South African version, not the US el-cheapo kind) and find him two nice board shorts and a bikini for me - not many options for these items in Kabul. A few more items and we are exhausted and feel guilty for indulging alongside this conspicuously commercialized society. We head to the airport. We like business class. Not something we have ever done (at least not paid for, I've negotiated myself in a few times, but this was the first "legitimate" claim to the fame).

So here in the lounge I wait. I showered. The wine is cold. I am happy. Not quite relaxed yet, but clean, and content. I am desperately trying not to check my work email...