Dubai now hosts the tallest building in the world, which may or may not signal the coming of the Apocalypse and the Mahdi. See Is the World's Tallest Building a Monument or a Tombstone for Dubai? Dubai has now also become the Poster Child for Wretched Excess and an object lesson in everything that is wrong, so wrong, with the global economy.
In Appetite for Destruction John Gravois offers a corrective to the “cheap metaphors, apocalyptic exaggeration, and schadenfreude that marks the Dubai backlash.” Excerpt:The Khalifa Tower, the Tallest Building in the World. Photo courtesy of the Anarchists at Coming Anarchy. See also The World's Top Photo Opportunity.
Alas, singlemindedly obsessed with facades and underbellies, the backlash correspondents fell quickly into weird observational pathologies. Writers would lavish numerous punishing column-inches on The World, an unpopulated offshore development that few Dubai residents have ever laid eyes on, while insisting that Dubai’s ubiquitous manual labourers are somehow concealed from the public gaze. Meanwhile, the same writers actually did render invisible vast segments of the population: namely, pretty much anyone who is not a rich, boorish westerner, an Emirati, or an immiserated low-wage worker. Entirely missing from most accounts was the Dubai of Indian shopkeepers, Filipino professionals, Lebanese restaurateurs, Iranian artists, Keralite longshoremen, African gold traders, Palestinian bankers and Pakistani estate agents. Between the facade and the so-called underbelly, an entire city went missing.
On a recent Swing through the Mideast I had a ten-hour layover in Dubai. If you are in transit the mammoth Dubai airport has a cornucopia of coffee shops, cafes, up-scale restaurants, luxury goods outlets, etc, where you can while away your time, but once you pass through immigration the choices are a lot slimmer. I ended up sitting in a Burger King drinking coffee until the sun came up, whereupon I took a cab down the Perfume Souk to the old section of the city. Every time I pass through Dubai I make a point of stocking up on scents.
Water Taxi in Dubai
I arrived downtown at 7:30 a.m. only to discover that the stores in the Perfume Souk did not open until 9:00. I strolled over to the nearby Gold Souk. Here I took a seat on one of the benches in the covered-over passageway through the souk. Already a few shopkeepers were arriving for work, most of them carrying a small plastic cup of tea they had picked up on the way. Soon a short little guy dressed in patched shorts, strapped tee-shirt, and plastic flip-flops came and sat down beside me. He appeared to be his seventies. From the large plastic bag of detritus he had with him I assumed he was the local version of a street person. For fifteen minutes he just sat there. Then he turned to me and asked in passable English, “What country are you from?” I really did not want to talk to the guy—I assumed he would try to beg money—so I said “USA.” In this part of the world in years past if you said you were from the USA people would usually just get up and walk away. But we live in different times. Instead, this guy exclaimed “Obama!” I was tempted to point out that in some in circles Obama is Thought to Be the Mahdi, but it was too early in the morning for eschatological debates.
Water Taxi in Dubai“Where are you from,” I asked. “Pakistan. In Dubai twenty-five years. Never go back to Pakistan. Good here. Lots of Pakistanis.” He pointed to three guys walking by, each holding a little plastic cup of tea: “Pakistanis. Shops on the Gold Souk. Pakistanis like gold!” A group of five guys slowly walked by, engaged in an animated discussion. “Pakistanis?” I wondered. “No!” he exclaimed, as if shocked by my ignorance. “Iranians!”
Then, unbidden, he called out the nationality of each man (there were no women) or group of men walking by. In addition to Pakistanis and Iranians here were Indians, Afghanis, Yemenis, Sudanese, Somalians, Syrians, Chinese, and a host of others. There seemed to be inordinate number of Chinese. All were people who worked in the Gold Souk and other nearby souks. “Where are the Dubai people?” I wonder. He did not seem to understand me. “People born here, the local people,” I explained. He shook his head. “No people from Dubai. They don’t work here.”
Then, unbidden, he called out the nationality of each man (there were no women) or group of men walking by. In addition to Pakistanis and Iranians here were Indians, Afghanis, Yemenis, Sudanese, Somalians, Syrians, Chinese, and a host of others. There seemed to be inordinate number of Chinese. All were people who worked in the Gold Souk and other nearby souks. “Where are the Dubai people?” I wonder. He did not seem to understand me. “People born here, the local people,” I explained. He shook his head. “No people from Dubai. They don’t work here.”
The merchants of the Gold Souk are people between the “facade and the so-called underbelly” mentioned above. As noted, these are the people you don’t hear much about, and who will no doubt remain in Dubai through its various booms and busts. Skyscapers may rise and fall but gold remains eternal. And oddly enough the old guy, despite all the information he imparted on me, never did ask for any money.
Gold necklaces in the Gold Souk — apparently just looted from the Tomb of Ur.
This little gold trinket cost 500,000 UAE dirhams — $136,147. Pick up a couple the next time you swing by Dubai.
