The Adventures of a Small Businessman in the Forbidden Zone

Our party was greeted on arrival by porters dressed in Indian Mogul style white uniforms topped with red turbans. I checked in and followed a porter to my room. The room had every modern convenience you could wish for. A complimentary bottle of red wine and a bowl of fruit stood on the bedside cabinet alongside a welcome note from the hotel management. I lounged in a steaming hot bath for a while, and then helped myself to some bananas washed down with half the bottle of red wine, stretched out on the crisp white sheets of the king sized bed and crashed out. I could get used to this with a bit of effort, I thought before I passed out.

As I said the DTI wanted to keep all the exhibitors together so we had no choice in our hotel accommodation, otherwise we would have chosen someplace a little less ostentatious, shall we say, and a lot cheaper.

Now don’t get me wrong the hotel was wonderful, but you know why it is called the Forte Grand? Because that is roughly how much full English breakfast would cost a family of four – about forty grand. Pounds Sterling my friends. No joke. Let me tell you how I discovered this distressing fact.

My alarm failed to stir me when it rang at eight AM. I woke up late in the morning after a restful sleep. Having missed breakfast I ate some pineapple from the fruit bowl, made myself look presentable and wondered off in search of my father. I found him in the reception area chatting with two other members of our group. They hadn’t been up long either. Funny how taxing on the system sitting in seats and being transported around can actually be.

They were sat in comfortable leather chairs around a low dark wood coffee table. Each time the main door opened a gust of furnace temperature air hit me like a slap across the face. Clearly the others also felt it. One of them proposed that we cool down with a cold beer then share a taxi downtown for a look around. There was plenty of time before we would be allowed into the exhibition hall at 4 O’clock to start setting up our stands.

So we had a bottle each of ‘probably the best lager in the world’ and asked the doorman to hail a taxi. I offered to settle the bill – it was only four small bottles of beer for heaven sake, while the others negotiated a price with the taxi driver. I paid the waiter and was walking out to join the others thinking to myself how reasonable a hotel it was. Eighty pence for a bottle of beer, not too bad at all. I checked my change and redid the mathematics in my head. There must be some mistake. I went back to the waiter.

“Excuse me, there appears to be a mistake with the bill. I ordered four small beers but you charged me for Dom Perignon.”

The waiter, clad in the ubiquitous white suit and red turban, checked the bill.

“No Sir, sad to tell you that the bill is correct.” Dad heard my reply and he was sat in a taxi outside the hotel.

“Eight quid for a bottle of Danish tonsil wash? Are you out of your tiny mind? I was apoplectic. How could I ever get blotto at these prices? “Three hundred degrees Celsius in the bloody shade and sixteen pounds for a pint of lager! Fuck this I’m going home.”

“Sir I don’t set the prices in the hotel. Believe me Sir they don’t pay me enough to buy a coke in here either.” The conversation was now effectively over.

I headed for the taxi in a state approaching catatonia. The Guy in the Mogul outfit followed me to the door speaking discretely in my ear.

“If I might suggest Sir, there is a rear entrance to the hotel across the gardens at the side of the fitness center. Beyond that and across the road is a bar called Biggles Bar. I understand that they serve pints of very nice cold beer for a mere fraction of the prices in this hotel. Also I notice that Sir is not wearing a wedding ring. Biggles Bar is a favourite haunt of the bored Western nurses from the hospital across town. I am sure Sir would have an interesting evening if he chose to visit.”

What a top bloke!!!

I joined the others in the taxi and imparted this important information. The other two were on company expenses and didn’t care less if beer was eight pounds a bottle. Dad and I however, had not budgeted for these prices and I was already worried we would run out of cash.

The taxi dropped us downtown where we wandered around aimlessly for half an hour – just long enough to look like we had played two hours five a side football in a car wash. It was hot as hell.

So we fell into the first air conditioned hotel we could find and ordered a drink. This time one of our new friends paid, so I had a pint. The bill for four drinks came to eleven pounds. Totally unacceptable in a civilized society in my opinion. I was developing a nervous tick just thinking about it.

In the taxi back to Ali Baba`s cave, sorry the hotel (It really was worth every penny, don’t take any notice of me), I sat in the front and chatted up the taxi driver. I asked him how he coped with the high prices in Dubai.

“What high prices?” he asked. “ Dubai is tax free. Cheapest place in the world, especially for rip off goods.” Looking at him he was indeed clad from head to foot in Versace and wearing a huge Rolex watch. Yet inexplicably he seemed to be unable to afford razor blades. Perhaps nobody has got round to counterfeiting razor blades. I don’t know.

“Well food for instance,” I ventured.

“Oh yes, it can be expensive to eat out, but when I am on duty I have no choice. I have to eat at the restaurant at the taxi rank.”

“So how much does that cost then?”

“In English money, maybe as much as two English pounds. If I get good tips I eat a good meal. If not…” he shrugged to indicate that not all things in life were in his hands.

“As much as two pounds, hey? The robbing bastards. Where exactly is this place then?”

It turned out that the taxi drivers, who were in the main impoverished Jordanians and Palestinians, used to congregate at a Palestinian run transport café just ten minutes walk from our hotel.

A stroke of luck indeed.

Later that afternoon we set up our exhibition stand and returned to the hotel in an air-conditioned courtesy bus. As we got out of the bus one of the crew from the Chamber of Commerce came over to ask which of the hotel restaurants we fancied trying tonight – they were also on expenses. There were three restaurants to choose from: European; Oriental and Middle Eastern, all staffed by the most beautiful Philippine waitresses I have ever seen It was love at first sight – I do love foreign food. The waitresses weren’t bad either. Sadly all beyond the reach of a wallet such as I was carrying. I was only carrying a Visa gold card. The rest of the hotel guests were paying with credit cards made of precious metals that I had never even heard of. Platinum? Old hat mate. I’m paying with a Rubicon alloy red metal Access card. Anyway, we had seen the menu prices and knew we were not eating in the hotel. Quick as a flash, dad avoided any potential embarrassment.

“Actually we rarely eat in hotels when we are abroad on business,” (this was our first overseas foray). “We like to get out and about and explore the local culture, get a feel for the place. Sean has been asking around and we have been recommended to try a local restaurant. Apparently the Arab chef is really something else. We are going to give it a try and we’ll let you know what it is like when we see you tomorrow.”

So after a showing and changing into casual clothes, dad and I set off. Eve this late in the afternoon the blast of air that hit you at the main entrance was still hot. Cooler than in the morning but still hot.

The immaculately attired Mogul style doorman asked would we like a taxi into town. No thanks, we like a walk before dinner – sharpens the appetite, you know.

He saluted us and wished us a pleasant evening. Really, I could get used to this lifestyle if I had to.

We walked down the street, across the junction, round the corner to the right and took our seats at ‘Greasy Ahmed`s’ transport café. Oh how the other half live!

The food was brilliant.

I should not have been surprised really considering where we were. For centuries Dubai has had trading links with India, Asia, Africa, Europe and the rest of the Middle East. All of these influences were reflected in Greasy Ahmed`s menu; onion bhajis, curried dishes, flat breads, pakoras, goat cheese dishes, lamb kebabs, vegetable pakoras, spicy spring rolls. Wonderful food, and dead cheap.

Greasy Ahmed`s became our restaurant of choice for the duration of our visit. The taxi drivers got to know us. They were a friendly hard working bunch, but they were definitely not happy with their lot.

There are two types of Arabs, they told us. Arabs-with-oil and Arabs-with-no-oil. Arabs-with-oil treat other Arabs like slaves. If you happen to be an Arab-with-oil and object to this statement, don’t take it up with me, go and talk to some Palestinian taxi drivers in the Emirates. I am sure they will be pleased to talk to you about how they are treated.

One Jordanian driver told me he worked a seven-day week for the Dubai Arab that owned the taxi firm. His first son had been born six months previously and he had repeatedly requested two weeks leave to go and see him. But his boss refused saying if he took time off without permission he would see him blacklisted and banned from the country. The guy was bitter and angry but he needed the job to send money home to his family, so he stayed.

Later on I bought a local paper printed in English and they did indeed have a couple of pages showing photos and details of overseas workers that employers wanted to make sure could not get another job in Dubai. Rarely did they give a reason why.

Talking to these guys put my complaints about working for a bank into sharp perspective for me. Not for the last time in my life I learned to count my blessings.

When I returned to the hotel I found a fresh bowl of fruit waiting in my room. No wine. Surely some mistake?

I phoned dad to check. Same thing – fresh fruit no booze. Oh shit.

Never mind I needed an early night anyway.

Early next morning I managed to acknowledge the ring of the alarm clock before the battery died of exhaustion, unlike the previous morning. I rose, showered, ate a couple of oranges (so important to keep up the vitamin C), and joined the others on the courtesy bus to the exhibition center. I also got dressed but I was sure you would take that bit for granted. Unless you knew me at University perhaps.

This morning was to be a private opening for members of the Dubai Royal Family only – don’t you just love to see democracy in action? Who did they think they were? Michael Jackson? Private opening indeed.

The exhibition center was a huge modern building. Our stand was somewhere in the middle of it all, opposite the British Embassy stand. Now what were they there for? Looking for new countries that might be interested in opening an Embassy or Consulate? Who knows?

On our stand we intended to display two machines that we thought would prove popular – a colourful slush drink machine and a soft ice cream machine. We now loaded up the machines with product, checked our display, got out leaflets and pads to take details of potential customers.

Then with half an hour to kill, we wandered around the exhibition looking at our fellow exhibitors. There were around 150 companies exhibiting their goods and services, and they covered every type of business. From ball bearing manufacturers to electronics companies, colleges trying to lure rich foreign students to study with them to a manufacturer of hand made rocking horses retailing for three times the price of the real thing. However there were only a handful of companies from the food industry.

Back at our stand we were stood in the aisle and I expressed my concerns that we might not meet the right type of customer at an event covering such a wide range of products. The staff on the Embassy stand opposite must have overheard me, because a gentleman clad in rich Arab robes now approached us.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sheik Jusef and I work with the Commercial Department of the British Embassy. I want to assure you that I have contacted every potential customer for your company in the region and personally invited them to visit your exhibition stand. I have no doubt that you will have a successful week.”

We spent a lot of time that week chatting with Sheik Jusef. He had a lovely gentle sense of humour and nothing was too much trouble for him.

Then the tannoy announced the arrival of the Royal Family with distinguished guests and we were up and running.

They were escorted around the hall by heavily armed guards and introduced to the various exhibitors by the British Minister for Trade and Industry, Lord Young I think it was. They stopped with us just long enough to try out some strawberry slush, then moved on.

In a large open space at one end of the hall. A company was exhibiting a unique range of bouncy castles: one shaped like a dragon, another like a pirate ship, yet another looked like a Disneyland style castle.

A couple of the Royal Princes began bouncing around the pirate ship, obviously having fun. His Royal Highness didn’t say a word, just vaguely waved his hand and bought the lot. Twenty thousand pounds worth. He also bought a full stable worth of handmade rocking horses and enough mint sweets to scare the living shit out of any concerned dentist.

Then His Highness and entourage were gone. The doors opened and in came the public.

We were really busy that day and took lots of inquiries, gave out lots of free samples. When it quieted down a little we exchanged some slush drinks and ice creams for some espressos from a coffee company and some hot delicacies from another company selling snack foods. So that was lunch taken care of.

The exhibition opening hours were 9AM to 1PM, with a break for the hottest part of the day, then a second session from 4 to 9PM.

That first afternoon we sold all the equipment off the stand. Or rather we took a fifty per cent deposit and agreed to close early on the last day of the exhibition to deliver and install the machines. We also agreed to hand over all the remaining stack of ingredients free of charge to the new owners. We were very happy bunnies indeed.

Now all we wanted to do was to appoint a distributor for our goods in the region and we would be in seventh heaven.

That evening after our banquet at Greasy Ahmeds we strolled over to Biggles Bar for a relaxing drink. It was busy so dad went for a table while I went to get us a couple of pints. It took a few seconds to recognize the grinning barman –he wasn’t wearing the white uniform with the red turban, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Genuine Calvin Klein of course.

“Very pleased you made it Sir,” said the waiter from the hotel. “I am sure you will find the prices here more to your liking. The Cream of Manchester on draught is particularly refreshing this evening.”

“You’ve got Boddingtons bitter on draught? Here?” I asked incredulously. Then a bit more warily, “Go on then, how much?”