This is an old piece which I wrote over two years ago. It’s long. The gist of it is this: I landed a gig as a journalist covering a property launch in Dubai. I knew nothing about the property world, Dubai, journalistic etiquette, or much else, and a lot happened…
‘Business’.
This was my response when the Kiwi woman seated next to me on my flight to Dubai enquired why it was that I was heading to that destination. I intoned it in such a way as to denote an asterisk next to the word ‘business’, as in reality, that was only a half truth.
True, I was going to Dubai on business: namely, to cover the launch of the Signature Property series by DAMAC, the leading luxury property developer in the Middle East, ostensibly for a national newspaper. The only inconsistency with that story is that I am not a journalist, nor did I know anything of the international property market. A friend of mine however is a journalist, and found himself unable to meet all his commitments back at the start of April – hence he asked me if I wouldn’t mind helping him out. For my part, I had quit my job at the end of March, carrying with me vague aspirations of travelling the world and a very definite dislike for the nine-to-five working world. That was pretty much all I knew.
I was told that this should be easy. Property journalists are given a detailed itinerary of what they will be expected to on these trips – which basically involves being shown the sights, wined and dined, viewing show properties, and attending launches. I would not have to worry about a thing: they would ferry me from airport to hotel to event and back again. All I had to worry about then, was my story (no, not for the paper, rather, for the property executives and other journalists. Would I make up something completely fanciful and far fetched, or just come clean straight away? I tried to concoct something suitably outrageous on the plane, but fell asleep before I got too far).
I cannot emphasise just how unprepared I was for this trip. I knew nothing of the property market, save for what I learned in Irish Times property supplement the previous Thursday. In many ways, that was all I needed to know. The stories are bland. The stories are formulaic. Every single property which they focused upon showed ‘great potential’. And that was it. If in doubt: potential.
There were a few other things which I had not considered which struck me as rather important when I heard the pilot announce that we were beginning our final descent into Dubai International Airport. First of all, did I need a visa? I certainly did not have one. Secondly, how was I getting from the airport to my hotel? While we are on that topic, what was the name of my hotel? I put blind faith in how I imagined businesspeople are treated in such instances – there would be a guy waiting at the airport with my name on a piece of card, and that would resolve that dilemma. I convinced myself of it. And wouldn’t that just be the culmination of many childhood dreams? ‘Yes, I am Mr Irish…’ But are property journalists truly worthy of the name-on-a-card treatment?
There was no such greeting party at the airport. I waited in the arrivals hall. I scanned the names-on-cards. Nary an ‘Irish’ to be seen. I waited. I waited. I waited some more. Crowds came and went. Hours passed. I was not, it seemed, going to get the name-on-a-card treatment. More importantly, how was I going to get to wherever the hell I was going to? I would have hailed a taxi myself, only, as previously mentioned, I did not know where it was that I wanted to go. This was problematic.
I decided that my only option would be to call one of the representatives of our PR company, who were the middlemen between the journalists and DAMAC, and who were to organise our transport, accommodation, and so on, and if anything went wrong, were to be our first port of call. Something was in the process of going wrong, so I decided to give my contact a ring.
Before I could do that another problem arose. My phone did not work in Dubai. This was something I had known before I left, but in a blasé moment, I decided I would never possibly need it. There were, however, payphones in the airport. Excellent. I could use one of those. Well, I could if I had local currency. Again, that was not a problem. Out of the desert arose the oasis of ten ATM’s, side by side by side. So all I would have to do is get some local currency, break it, and then use the phone.
Did I mention that I was horrendously unprepared for this trip? What was the currency conversion in the United Arab Emirates? I decided to play it safe, figuring that I may need cash at a later date, and take out the second smallest amount displayed. An Irish ATM would list €40 as the second smallest amount. Fine. I could make a call, and still have enough cash for future unforeseens – such as paying for my taxi. The second smallest amount listed on the ATM was six hundred dirhams. So I took that out. Next task was to break this, so I could have change for the payphone. I duly went and bought a can of coke. During this transaction I realised that something was amiss. The coke cost me one dirham. I had six hundred. How much cash had I taken out of the ATM exactly? I later discovered that it amounted to something in the region of one hundred and fifty euro. Ouch. Adding insult to depleted bank balance, now that I had change, it became apparent that the public phones actually required pre-bought cards to make a call…
Fast forward twenty minutes, and, call-card purchased, and call to my PR contact made, I waited for my lift. He was apologetic, explaining that there should have been someone waiting for me at the airport for the past two hours, and that he would arrange for someone to pick me up as soon as was possible. I told him that I was by the public phones in the arrivals area, where I would wait, as he promised to call me back at that phone to confirm everything was in order. After fifteen minutes I hear a voice behind me telling me: ‘your transport has arrived.’ Phew.
Only it hadn’t. The twenty year old, battered saloon did not resemble a taxi which you would expect ‘the leading luxury property developer in the Middle East’ to hire. The driver had to clear a space on the passenger seat, and bizarrely, was parked in the long term car-park, fifteen minutes from the airport terminal, and the lines of taxis. Having initially played along and confirmed that he was there to pick me up, that he had been talking to my PR contact, and so forth, my Bangladeshi driver finally admitted that none of the above was true. He was an opportunist, who evidently overheard my phone conversation, and was now playing as my hired transport to the hotel. And he was going to fleece me. During the drive to my hotel (which fortunately, I had finally been provided the name of) we talked about two things. Firstly, how all the registered taxis would charge upwards of eighty or ninety American dollars for the same journey. Sure. Secondly, we talked about cricket. Getting a little exasperated at his constant reference to the ‘good rate’ he was giving me (at sixty euro!) I continually made reference to how Ireland had recently beaten Bangladesh at the Cricket World Cup. However, Bangladesh were beating Ireland at this game. I was just happy to finally arrive at my hotel, and so paid him the sixty euro he insisted upon, but made sure that he issued me with a receipt. Which he did. At least I knew I was getting fleeced.
***
I felt rather embarrassed checking into the hotel, the Park Hyatt. I was embarrassed because I could not quite fathom what I had done to deserve such a luxurious abode for the weekend. I was more used to hostels where you were lucky if someone wasn’t sleeping in your bed when you returned at night. My idea of luxury was clean sheets. Not this. My room had French windows at one end which opened onto my ‘private’ garden. That in turn extended onto a public promenade, which lead to a marina, mooring yachts of the great and the good. All within thirty seconds stroll of my hotel room.
I slept for most of the afternoon. Our first assignment would be that evening, although it was billed as an informal dinner, before ‘work’ proper began the following morning. During the course of the afternoon, the phone rang. It was one of the other journalists on the trip, from the Telegraph in London. Her first question threw me rather: ‘I don’t normally cover property, are these things normally this badly organised?’ ‘I … um… don’t normally cover property either … it does seem pretty shambolic.’ I still was not sure whether it was better pretending to be a journalist or not, although once I’d established that we were the only two native English speakers on the trip, that both of us were not ‘property people’, and that both of us were cynics, it seemed pretty safe to give up the pretence.
Before I left Ireland, I had been told that the launch was an international affair; that it should be easy enough to be inconspicuous if necessary, and that it would not be all ’strictly business’ (journalist code for ‘there may be a piss-up’, I think). The launch was an international event, however, the only problem was that all the other journalists were from the greater Middle East region: Saudi Arabia, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Pakistan, India, and Kazakhstan. None were English speakers. And there didn’t seem much prospect for the aforementioned ‘piss-up’, either. Not that it was on the cards at any point, as the Chairman of DAMAC was a strict Muslim who had stipulated, on hearing that there were British journalists coming, that there was to be no drinking (bizarrely, he later recanted and put aside a budget of thirty thousand dirhams to get us drunk, as long as it was done privately, but I certainly did not get see my three thousand euro’s worth of whiskey).
Our first assignment was that evening. I waited in the hotel lobby for the rest of the group with some trepidation. Having established that all but one of them spoke English, I realised there was not much hope of idle chat. We were herded into a limousine straight out of My Super Sweet Sixteen which took us to our evening appointment, at a beautiful resort deep in the Arabian desert. Having been told that this would be an informal dinner (I presumed, just for the journalists), I dressed informally: Campers, jeans, a casual shirt, and a blazer – just to be on the safe side. I was not on the safe side. First of all, the dinner was anything but a casual affair – it was not just for the journalists, but also for DAMAC top brass: Chair, Chief Executive, and assorted directors and hangers on, all dressed in immaculate suits. Also, DAMAC’s star attraction was present: Ivana Trump, the property company’s ‘patron’ (complete with burly bodyguard shadowing her) was doing her bit for the corporate cause.
This threw me. What threw me more was being introduced to each and every one of these people, and having to exchange pleasantries, and business cards, with them. Naturally, not being a businessperson, a journalist, anything remotely important, I did not possess a business card. Fortunately, my colleague from London had forgotten hers, so I used the same excuse. I did spy one of the DAMAC top brass, an Arab clad in traditional dress, looking me up and down as we exchanged pleasantries, as if to say: ‘how did this guy get in?’ But the important thing was that I was in. I even managed to feign comprehension of international air travel timetables, as Ivana recited her favourite means of traversing the world. I nodded knowingly. Yeah sure, I’ve flown business class from New York to Dubai. All the time Darling, all the time.
The lavish meal passed without event. I stayed close to my English speaking colleague from London and a German DAMAC executive, who appeared to be the only person there who was not fluent in corporate speak, and dare I say it, had a little charisma. He was probably new. Everyone else can only be described as a corporate drone, unable to comprehend any deep or critical way of viewing the astronomical rate and scale of development in Dubai. If it was not in a company press release, they did not want to talk about it. This was, I suppose, understandable, but it made for slightly disarming conversation over three hours deep in the desert. Having made some polite chit chat with Ivana over the buffet, the rest of the evening passed without event.
***
The following morning was an early start: 7.30am, as this day I had ‘work’ to do. Again I agonised over what to wear. I would be working, but it is not real work, is it? I won’t have to look presentable, will I? I had not packed particularly well in any event, so it was my civvies or my suit, and even at 7.30am it was like an oven outside, so that made my decision for me. Again with the jeans, campers, and a casual white shirt. After waiting in the lobby for well over half an hour for our PR people to pick us up, our transport arrived. Again, we were ushered into the tacky limousines – they’re taking us everywhere in these things? – and set off for our assignment in Dubai Marina, about an hour from the hotel.
The morning’s work was pain-free and easy. We were taken to a couple of DAMAC show apartments located at the top of one of their towers at the marina. From our vantage point on the 36th floor, we had a wonderful view of our surrounds: Dubai Marina, the famous Palm Jumeirah, the Persian Gulf, but above all, construction work. Everywhere you looked. The DAMAC show apartment was covered in a fine coat of dust, not sand blowing in from the desert, but dust from the endless development works being undertaken all around. Dubai Marina is impressive enough from a distance: tens and tens of (relatively) aesthetically pleasing tower blocks surrounding a man made marina, where we were told, the real great-and-good moor their yachts. However, a ridiculous amount of construction work surrounds it, accompanied by the constant din of drilling, hammering and trucks being driven from site to site. Ultimately, Dubai Marina will be home to upwards of 250 towers: it will be Manhattan, transplanted to the desert.
One thing which is striking about talking to not only property executives, but ordinary people in Dubai, is the extent to which they have bought into the materialistic culture of oneupmanship there, and specifically, the constant building: taller, bigger, more luxurious, quirkier, more innovative, more beyond comprehension. In Dubai, anything is possible. DAMAC’s CEO, admitted as much to me, claiming that ‘anything goes’. What is interesting is that this seems to be mutually accepted; probably not surprising as 90% of the population there are expatriates, who have migrated to Dubai in the past five years to live the materialistic dream. One hears curious conversations where people will reference certain iconic developments like any other landmark. Fine, only for the fact that these developments do not exist as of yet. Business Bay, Palm Two and Palm Three, all of these are purely notional at the moment. However, once the computer generated images appear in the newspapers, and once the apartment space is snapped up, these become part of the landscape, even if only in the mind’s eye. In Dubai, most photos of the surrounds tend to be computer generated.
Having viewed the show flats, my next assignment was a bit tougher: DAMAC were officially launching their Signature Residences, which was the whole reason that I was in Dubai. Here I would have to again feign being a journalist. Once more this proved surprisingly easy: we were given a detailed press release, with all the information I could possibly need, and thus could sit at the back of the press conference and not ask a question. What can one possibly ask at such an event? I soon found out. The Pakistani representative went first: ‘What plans have DAMAC for Pakistan?’. Next went the Indian hack: ‘What plans have DAMAC for India?’ The Egyptian journalists asked something similar. As did the Kazakhs.
Myself and the Telegraph journalist noticed an interesting trend while we were there, namely, that the other hacks on this trip seemed to be much more in awe of everything which was put in front of them by our hosts, and much more ’straight’ in how they viewed things there. For example, see the questions they asked at the press conference. This was more evident however, in how the PR company dealt with us and them. I got the impression that our hosts in the PR agency (an Indian who was brought up in the United States, and a Lebanese national) were weary of dealing with people from the surrounding region who were one dimensional in their outlook, and lacking in cynicism. Thus, whenever we were separated from the group, our PR guides were always eager to illuminate the underbelly of Dubai for us; telling us of predicted gloom in the property boom, of possible government legislation inhibiting developments from 2010, of the terrible working conditions experienced by those working menial jobs, and of the unhappiness felt by many residents with the constant clatter of construction. The Dubai they presented to the group was the Dubai of the computer graphics whereas privately one of them likened it more to the computer game Sim City.
This was a cultural phenomenon, which manifested itself in another way. Our PR minders seemed to view us, as ‘British’ journalists, as somehow more important than the rest of the pack. Thus, myself and the Telegraph correspondent were constantly being approached during our stay and asked if there was anyone there who we would like to formally interview, while the other journalists were overlooked. You come from the West, ergo, you must be writing important stories. Nothing could be further from the truth. Guys, I’m student who is between jobs, bored, and here for the laugh. After the press conference, DAMAC’s head of PR came over to me and asked if I wanted to interview their CEO. Due to boredom (what exactly was our drinking budget spent on?) I agreed to it. I was, at the time of the invitation, stuck at a dining table with an Egyptian journalist, who was tortuously trying to explain to the Kazakhs (via an Ukranian interpreter) that life under Communism must have been terrible.
Interviewing someone assumes that you have questions to ask. What do property journalists ask, anyway? A quick brainstorming session later, I went into battle, armed with four questions. The CEO was a rather stern Scottish man, very measured and often curt in conversation, but always smiling as he spoke, which I found rather disarming. With a bluetooth headset permanently attached to his ear, he had something of the Bond villain about him. My first question: what was the conception behind the Signature Residence series, and how did it evolve? I thought I would get plenty out of that. However, he had a tendency to finish a thought very abruptly, which was what he did here, leaving me clambering desperately to gather my thoughts. I don’t want him thinking I’m horrendously unprepared. I was. I flailed about with a couple of other generic questions for the next fifteen minutes: what was DAMAC’s vision for Europe? You’re not interviewing George Marshall here. He was more than happy to switch into corporate, schmoozy speak here. Ireland is great. Wonderful country. Great people. Model economic development (Ha!). I went with it. I hope he doesn’t notice I’ve stopped writing. After maybe twenty minutes in total, that was it. I had four pages of notes, scrawled down hastily. All pretty irrelevant.
***
The main event was on that evening. This was to be a black tie gala ball launch party for the Signature Residences. In fact, the only advice I was given before my trip was that I should bring a tuxedo. At least I would be appropriately dressed for this one. When we gathered in the lobby to depart for the event, however it appeared that I was the only one of our group to adhere to the dress code (specified by Ivana no less, in a ridiculous invite that was left in our hotel rooms). In fact, most of the hacks took it as a queue to dress down. Their work here was done. My friend from the Telegraph took the opportunity, being a fashionista, to don her glad-rags, so at least the two of us were in the same boat.
The event itself was as over the top as one can imagine. Staged at Dubai Media City, it was styled like a Hollywood film premiere: there was a red carpet entrance, complete with faux press photographers pretending to snap the ‘celebrities’ as they made their way by; and then a (non-alcoholic) open air drinks reception by the show apartment – a chance for the hoi polloi to hobnob and be snapped by the (this time real) local media. In truth this was rather boring. We were disappointed at the lack of real celebrity (apart from Ivana’s obligatory appearance) and, of course, the lack of booze. This reception was a precursor to the main event, but it dragged on for so long that myself and my friend from the Telegraph found ourselves thinking of escaping. However, leaving would have involved making our way back down the red carpet, past the faux photographers and the DAMAC drones – not a good idea, all in all. Especially given the Bond-villain qualities the corporation seemed to pride themselves upon.
However, in the midst of this plotting, we were stopped a number of times by local photographers to be snapped for their respective rags. I can only imagine this was because we were well dressed, young, and western – where as the majority of ex-pats there were in the fifty-plus age bracket, we stood out somewhat. So I had the bizarre fortune to be photographed by Hello’s Middle East edition. Whether the photos ever appeared in the rag is another story…
The main event was a huge open air gala dinner for more than two hundred people. DAMAC organised entertainment for this, although again, we were rather underwhelmed. The Dubai Philharmonic Orchestra backed up various opera singers and stage stars, all of whom we had never heard of. The singers all gave rather affected ‘impassioned’ performances which added to the surreal feel of the night. Yet the crowd seemed to lap it up. The music was interspersed with self-congratulatory speeches by DAMAC top brass. All rather boring and drawn out.
My friend from London had to catch an early morning flight – so she had ample excuse to leave early, and arranged a taxi with the PR guy. I feigned a headache, and he seemed to ‘understand’ straight away what I was getting at, and agreed that I could leave too. The look on the face of the Kazakh journalists as we left was priceless. How the hell did they manage to escape this dross? But escape we had.
Before heading our separate ways, our PR contact informed me that there was a taxi organised for me to the airport the following morning. Suitably reassured, I said my goodbyes and made my way to bed.
The taxi never showed up.
The airline lost my luggage on the way back.
Ireland play France in the first leg of the World Cup qualification play-offs this weekend. Saturday’s game will be at Croke Park with the return to come on Wednesday in the Stade de France. I would not normally be one for game previews or reviews, and I don’t intend that this piece should become one, but understandably, there is quite a bit of hype about this game. Ireland have not been in such a position to qualify for a major championship in eight long years. A lot has happened in the meantime.
So, there is a list of 104 names of MLB players who tested positive for performance enhancing drugs in 2003. The tests, which were done simply as an anonymous survey to see the extent of the steroid problem in baseball, were meant to be destroyed afterwards. Earlier in the year, the name of Alex Rodriguez was leaked, and last week it emerged that Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz’s names were also on the list.
