Down and Out in the UAE Badlands
I hate the city.
It’s so soulless, so drab—false, phony, faux. Downtown is commercial imperialism that impedes on the heart and soul of authentic districts within the city. There are neighbourhoods full of energy and character, like Al Satwa and Al Bastakiya, but the municipality-powers-that-be are subtly annexing these archaic neighbourhoods—bulldozing over whole street blocks at a time, sweeping up the debris and tucking the rubble under the carpet—only to replace the space with a hotel, arabesque style, or worse: yet another ugly skyscraper.
I can’t stand the city. Which is why I rarely grant myself the displeasure of being there. There is an antidote for city dwelling: the Badlands. Towns and villages out in the desert— fantastic landscapes and civilization untouched by the commercialisation of place and space—far away from Burger King and Tim Horton and perfume sellers who thrust sample swabs in your face. No thanks, I’m good. The last time I interacted with a perfume peddler, I led them on too much, as they worked tirelessly to show me all their different stock, ranges, aromas. Once she completed her tour de l‘odeur, I said—in my embarrassingly asocial mannerism—“Well…thanks for showing me” backing off slowly. The other lady working behind the counter touched the shoulder of the now distraught seller and said “It’s okay…” The French call an orgasm petit mort which translates to “little death” but I believe the term would be more aptly used naming these social interactions where you die a little inside.
Regardless of my past in blue balling perfumers, my dear friend Zubiya and I had struck down the desert highway, in search of the settlement Al Dhaid. There we met the King of Hiatus himself—the dealer of the nine-to-fivers’ raison d’etre—a travel agent. He only spoke Urdu, which was unfortunate for me—but judging by my previous track record with human-to-human interaction—not unfortunate for him. Zubiya, a savior in any situation and particularly in this one, could manage to uphold a conversation between the three of us, so that we could chat about life in a desert town, how he ended up out here in the Badlands, and the smoggy city in the distance.
He introduced himself and we introduced ourselves. While he was very friendly, I do wish to protect his identity, I’ll call him Rahul from here on out.
I was immediately aware of Rahul’s incredible hospitality, and bashfully ashamed about how quickly he offered to grab us some water from the fridge, and even to run down to a local restaurant to fetch food. I knew in a similar situation I would never be so generous. Pakistanis are incredibly giving people—and the British are already renowned for their stinginess.
The travel agency hadn’t been Rahul’s calling, but he wasn’t staying long in the UAE for it either. He had his eyes set on Canada and so he was in the midst of the difficult process of trying to acquire a visa. His cousin owned a restaurant in Canada and had told him to learn the trade, so Rahul was flipping burgers and rolling dough in his spare time in one of Al Dhaid’s fine eateries. He was a smart-looking bloke, in a finely ironed shirt, and sporting a well-kept beard. The space itself was pleasant, albeit a little cramped. Zubiya and I sat on a sofa with a seat sunk too far back, which meant we had to awkwardly perch on the edge, our knees brushing the front of Rahul’s desk.
The age old question popped: how was business? Not bad, according to Rahul. They had the unique selling point of being Al Dhaid’s only Pakistani-owned travel agency—the others being owned by Malbari and Bangladeshi people—so they hoovered up all the clients looking to return to Pakistan. Rahul said his sister even knew Arabic, and would whip on an abaya should any Emiratis come in, looking to book a holiday. He explained to us that desi people own the storefronts in Al Dhaid, and Emiratis the construction companies. A seemingly symbiotic relationship between the two people—the sellers and the clients, the landowners and the tenants.
So we knew about his future plans for Canada, the current success of the travel agency... but what about the past? Well—Rahul explained—he had to cut university short because his motorbike was set on fire by a gang.
“I’m sorry, what did he say?” I interjected. Zubiya swatted at me, interacting that I should shut it, as she was frantically trying to keep up with what Rahul was saying.
“—I’ll explain in a bit, one sec—”
Rahul had a knack for speaking at break-neck speed, so it was a miracle Zubiya was able to keep up with him at all. He explained that the university he attended was rife with factions that would wage war against each other, and were—even by gang standards —very particular about their territory. Poor Rahul parked his bike in the wrong spot one sunny afternoon and a gang member, seeing it as a potential personal attack from a rival faction, doused it in gasoline and set it alight. The story was plastered all over the news, with a crummy CCTV portrait of Rahul implicating him in this massive misunderstanding.
In a clearly overwhelming time, Rahul declined returning to university and decided to get himself straight into work, eventually ending up at a travel agent’s in the UAE. And the rival travel agencies here did not burn the other’s personal property—although we didn’t quiz him on whether he’d tried parking his own vehicle outside their store.
I joined in on the snowstorm of a conversation, primarily to Zubiya, to ask her to ask him if he ever went to the “big city”. Yes, Rahul answered, but mainly for food, like KFC— at which point he also offered us KFC, which officially meant that Rahul had offered us food more times than I had offered anyone anything in my entire life. Finger Lickin’ Sod I am.
Any closing comments, notable treasures or treasured notes? He mentioned he was big on TikTok and I could hear the commercialism of Dubai city catcalling us. Here I am, far out into the Badlands—the Ballardian landscape eroded away into grains of sand— only to find another postmodern threat unexpectedly creeping up on me—that of the incredibly dire dancing app. Rahul mentioned that he’d managed to swig some cricket tickets from his TikTok fame so fair play to him, I suppose. Although, he did briefly mention that he had been banned from the app but wouldn’t go into why…
On an unexpectedly shifty note, we concluded our conversations and bid our dear Rahul goodbye. He had been pleasantly talkative, although he’d warned that not all of Al Dhaid would treat us the same. He said that if we stayed later into the evening, when more of the townspeople were about, people would stare—AKA they would gawk at the ginger haired mug milling about, I am a proverbial sore thumb in any crowd.
Our hiatus from the city, to meet the Charon of holiday himself—travel agent Rahul—had been refreshing. There was no mention of avocados, Pier 7, bagels, or Kite Beach. ‘The Rock’ out there only meant Fossil Rock—a nearby hiking trail and archaeological site—and not a wrestler-cum-actor who has appeared in just about every piss poor action film since 2016. There is no Talabat in Al Dhaid, nor are there any Jumeirah Janes looking for a summer camp to drop their god-awful kids at. Your problem now, motherfuckers!
Although, one way to improve Al Dhaid would be—according to Rahul, at least—to build a bloody KFC.
Benjamin Kirby takes photos and writes. He is from a small town in the UK. He likes the UAE but he doesn’t like sun cream. If you would like to see more from him, you can follow his Instagram: @albionfilm
All images courtesy of the author