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A train of camels ambles lazily beneath the sun, fiery red and ready to set behind the great dunes for the coming night.  Following the traveling queue of beasts is a young bearded man wearing a dishdash, the traditional white ankle-length gown with accompanying head covering.  I wait for Lawrence of Arabia to appear on the horizon, the scene so perfect. This is the land of Arabs, Islam and desert. Okay, so I didn’t see that, really. If you want images of Dubai, try this: mini-skirted Russian girls shopping in chic shopping centers that make Crossroads seem like its flirting with bankruptcy. Leather-clad Harley guys and gals of all nationalities roaring down super highways surrounded by forty-story glass and chrome skyscrapers, and young gorgeous Iranian women at supercharged nightclubs hanging on the arms of their American, British or Syrian boyfriends.  Set against the backdrop of sand and sea is a remarkable city. Dubai, once little more than a sleepy backwater town, has sprung magically out of this desert wilderness in the last thirty or so years to become a modern, cosmopolitan city whose inhabitants have arrived from the four corners of the globe to embrace a liberalism not enjoyed anywhere else in the Middle East.  This odd hybrid of Baghdad, Bombay and Phoenix is the new Mecca for a host of nationalities: Arabs, Indians, Filipinos, Iranians, Russians, Europeans and Americans.  Up until 1958, Dubai was a collection of buildings built alongside the “creek”, a natural sea inlet winding through the heart of the city.  The settlement, visited by British trade ships on the way to India, earned money primarily through fishing and pearl diving. Throughout the Twentieth Century, because of the liberal attitudes of Dubai’s rulers, Dubai prospered as a leading center of trade.  In 1958, black gold was discovered and the leaders here decided wisely to pump billions into infrastructure instead of lining their own pockets. The United Arab Emirates came into being in 1971 when the British pulled out of the region and several small “states” joined into a federation under the able leadership of one man, His Highness Sheikh Zayed Bin Sultan Al Nahyan. He’s a good guy, having been a solid friend to America. A rich tapestry of interwoven cultures, beliefs and peoples dominates Dubai, a vibrant city of approximately 900,000.  You can still sit in cafes in which Arab men drink strong, black coffee and smoke water pipes, or wander the narrow alleys of the old souq. But we expats, including thousands of Americans, have so much more to choose from. By day, there are shops, souqs, sun & surf, all manner of sports, safaris or spas. By night, there are world-class restaurants and nightclubs with fabulous entertainment. We’ve also got the largest water theme park outside of North America. It puts Oceans of Fun to shame. Oh, and there are at least fifty monstrous fireworks show a year, many of which are on par with those at Rosenblatt Stadium in Omaha each year. The city is quickly gaining a reputation as the financial and sporting capital of the Middle East. There’s a burgeoning stock market and the city plays host to the Dubai Tennis Open and the Dubai Desert Classic. Tiger Woods has been here a couple of times, not to mention Tom Jones. Not that you’re envious over that, I’m sure.

The Burg al-Arab hotel in Dubai is the tallest hotel in the world. The hotel has been given a 7-star rating and all rooms come with a personel butler.

Mostly we enjoy living in this delightfully absurd city. I’ll bet none of you have ever seen Santa Clause arriving at the mall via a jet ski screaming across the sea, and then listened to an Indian children’s choir singing Christmas Carols while kids of all nationalities stood in line to chat with Santa. An oddity: “snow” coming down inside the mall, once an hour for ten minutes, after which tiny Pakistani janitors armed with huge brooms sweep it up in tandem. No real snow here. It rained once the year I arrived in 1997. 
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The lobby of the Burg al-Arab Hotel.

Other incongruencies in this Middle Eastern Twilight Zone: tractors puttering along on major highways, camping in the dunes, goats in the back of Toyota pickups, seawater with temps like a hot tub, men holding hands in public, stores open until midnight, palaces, camel races, marbled gas stations where a gallon of gas will cost you 90cents. And a British chap on the radio advertising cross-dressing night at the most fashionable nightclub. Yep, it’s fun in Dubai.  It’s been an education living and working among the transients of this multi-cultural city.  The odd thing about Dubai, the obvious factor which differentiates it from nearly every other city is that the indigenous nationals—refered to as “locals”—make up only 20% of the city. The other 80% are residents, temporarily infused into a fast-paced society which has needed the brains and brawn of the world to build its structure and unique lifestyle. Of the 80%, about half are from India and Pakistan.  About 30% are from either the Philippines or other Arab countries; the remaining 10% are we poor westerners. So I have something in common with the locals: I’m a minority here. The majority of locals live in villas and work in fairly cush jobs, in the government, in banking, and in business.  You’ll never see a local waiting on tables at a Pizza Hut. That’s for the Filipinos and Indians.  A small number of locals, in fact, don’t even have to work since the government provides each national family with a certain amount of dirhams annually—courtesy of the President, Sheik Zayed.  How much depends on family status and size. That said, there is a high unemployment rate for locals. We ‘foreigners’ are taking all the jobs. You can’t blame us. The average American coming to work here can expect nothing less than a tax-free income, free accomodation, and annual airline tickets home. It’s pretty cool. Back to the locals. You see them on TV as the men decked out in white flowing robes, the dish-dasha, as we call it, a contrast to the girls in ebony. My friend Khalid wears the dish-dasha because it’s comfortable, but just as often he slips into levis and sports a baseball cap. Backwards of course. The women don’t have the luxury of altering their appearance. It’s basic black once out in public. Most of the girls here, especially at my university, do not veil, unlike in Saudi, but are otherwise covered. They don’t seem to mind. When I ask students if they mind shrouding in dark material, they shrug my question off with nonchalance. “It’s no problem,” some say. “It’s fashionable.” At first I was unsettled by the locals’ manner of dress. At night, out in the dimly-lit parking lot, the men-in-white were like phantoms gliding across the pavement toward their BMW’s.  The women were barely discernable, the blackness of their abayas merging with the darkness of night.

Okay, there are other negatives.  For instance, the bureaucracy.  Just to transfer my Nebraska license to a UAE license was an exercise in massive frustration. 

I had entered the Department of Motor Vehicles at 8:00a.m. on a July morning when the temperature was a sweltering, joy-killing 117 degrees.  The starkly plain and dingy waiting area was empty except for three benches and dozens of sweat-drenched Indian men.  I had seemingly left the comforts of modern, everything-is-air-conditioned Dubai and stepped into the past.   I stood in a loosely formed line (Indians seem to detest lines and therefore form “pools”) for thirty minutes, only to discover once I reached the counter that I first needed an eye exam. Crossing the room, I sat for another thirty minutes with several indigent-looking Indians and Pakistanis, a couple Arabs, and a portly ruddy-faced Englishman. When I walked into a diminutive office containing one small desk, a middle-aged local took me through the eye test. Simple.  Then on to another line to have my Nebraska license stamped.
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“No,” said a swarthy character. “You have to have it translated into Arabic first. And you need the original, not this copy.”  “But it is the original. This is what a Nebraska license looks like,” I insisted. “It can’t be,” he cried, looking it over suspiciously. “It is,” I stated. “You have to accept this!” You’d think I’d asked to ravish his sister by the look he gave me.  Mr. Geniality instructed me to go to the American Consulate—just down the street—and get a stamp of authentication.  So I went for the stamp. The Consulate happened to be closed for regular business that day, but one helpful official on duty managed to get me the required stamp. This was unusual. Most consular officials take lessons in inefficiency. After I returned to the Department of Motor Vehicles, I got to stand in another line.  The before-mentioned bureaucrat did a heavy stamping of my paperwork and pointed to another line where I could pay my fee. In the meantime, he walked away with my Nebraska license. “Finally!” I said with relief.  Next line, next wait. I paid amid some minor confusion as to who was actually on duty. “Where’s my license?” I asked. “You have to have your photo taken,” a non-descript man in his thirties told me. “Where?” I asked, annoyed. “In line over there,” replied the man, pointing not without sympathy to another line outside of a small studio. Eventually I was beckoned into the room for the photo. The photographer, looking at a computer monitor, had trouble making my head look acceptable for a license. When the chore was finished, I went out into the main room to wait for the coveted finished product. By the time I was handed my license, I’d spent several hours doing something that would have taken ten minutes back home.

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Despite these forays into a third-world bureaucracy, nothing will alter my opinion that a first-world Dubai is a wonderful city in which to live, another world for this Nebraskan to explore. 

How do young people here in Dubai feel about America and Americans? After all, there is certainly a facade of western idealism here: young people wear American clothing fashions and eat fast food; Five English-language radio stations belt out the American and British top forty, even playing the Country Music Countdown on Friday nights; and everything everywhere is in English. Right now, most of the residents of Dubai are irritated (to put it mildly) with the Bush Administration. It’s not that they appreciate Saddam Hussein’s gifts; in fact, they wish someone would take the dog out and shoot him. What they object to is the heavy-handed way the Bush administration has handled the whole thing. The complaint of our allies, as well. For the most part, though, my Iranian friends think the States is cool. While it’s not true that everyone wants to go live in America, it’s a fact that many can appreciate the culture and values of the United States. 

Dubai is pretty liberal when it comes to Christian churches. Whereas in Saudi Arabia worship is strictly prohibited, the leaders of the UAE have decided the best approach is open acceptance. The result: churches abound. Catholic and protestant. Lots of protestants: Emirates Baptist, United Christian Church of Dubai, Holy Trinity, Dubai Seventh-Day Adventist, and a host of others. In fact, the other day, a Korean minister claiming to be a healer visited Dubai, and in front of European and Arab TV camera crews, healed several in the congregation, something verified by doctors who put the healed through a series of tests. Yep, no matter if you are Catholic or a holy roller, Dubai has a church for you.

The TV listings are worth a browse. You'll find a variety of programming. Natually there is full cable should you want it, with all the rubbish from Britain and America. Local station Dubai 33 has an interesting mix of shows seemingly incongruently put together. For example, Wednesday evening's 6:30pm presentation is "Hadith, Sayings of the Prophet”, followed by The Bold and the Beautiful. Islam followed by musical beds? Hmmm. Discover Islam is followed by The New Adventures of Lois & Clark. 

Most of us don’t have time for too much TV. There’s too much to do here in this fast-paced, often frenetic city. Any evening after work, I can jump in my Mitsubishi Colt and head off down the highway  to meet friends at the A & W Rootbeer hangout and listen to Dubai FM’s Country Music Countdown,  or I can  drive out of the city to the dunes and watch the sun disappear behind those ever-changing hills of reddish sand, across which trains of camels still amble, being guided by bearded men whose ancestors could never have imagined a city like Dubai. To see more photos of Dubai Click Here
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