It’s strange that I do not wear a Rolex on my wrist, drive a Pajero or flaunt a gold ipad, but I still live in Dubai.
As the sun sets over the Business Bay on the weekend, I do not head off to the nightspots for some fine dining and exotic nightlife, but instead drive towards my home and sit on a flyover in rush-hour traffic.
I have never bought a bar of gold from a teller machine near the Burj Khalifa or eaten sushi at the jaw-dropping Emirates Palace Hotel or worn a flashy ring with my birthstone.
In fact, the last time I had been to the Gold Souq was when I got lost near the Naif Police Station and ended up waiting for a bus-load of excited tourists to cross the street to the archway with the words proclaiming: ‘City of Gold’.
I didn’t know what DKNY stood for when a friend’s cousin asked if I could pick up that branded large zip tote when coming home for the holidays. I only found out what the initials spelled out when the creator of the fashion label stopped over at Dubai and spoke about Yoga and Zen instead. “Life is chaotic and we are all in chaos,” she was reported as saying.
Most of the time, I ignore the calling cards stuck on my windshield, advertising a personalised massage service to help rid myself of stress and tension from living in a happening city. I also disregard my doctor’s pleas to bring down my cholesterol level, hoping I will get a discount at a hospital if I check in with a host of medical problems, instead of just one ailment.
And I don’t get excited when the yearly shopping festival starts off with a bang and hordes of camera-toting shoppers come here from across the world to shop, while more savvy residents wait for the last days of the festival to clinch a bargain.
I don’t live on Palm Jumeirah and, in fact, have never have ridden the monorail to see one of the wonders of the modern world from a different perspective, or taken a staycation at the hotel nearby where celebrities come for their birthday bash and swim with the dolphins.
I don’t do all these because I am still trying to live the ‘Dubai Dream’ and working hard towards it. People say that if you can’t make it in Dubai you can’t make it anywhere.
Meanwhile, I drive an eight-year-old car which acts up every summer when I desperately need the air-con to work and even the oil-change guy at the petrol station makes a snide remark saying that he hasn’t seen such an old car in Dubai for a long time!
But to placate me, he says that the car engine is still good. I tip him cheaply for his cheap shots at my car, but he doesn’t mind and gives me two free tissue boxes.
I get a heart attack every time the credit card statements come and the interest keeps piling up. I try to ignore the telemarketers from banks who advise me to consolidate my debts and offer me a free iPhone if I take up their offer to jump bank.
My wife thinks I am cheap and that no matter where I live I would still be suffering whenever I have to open my wallet and buy something. It’s a serious case of stingiitis, she tells me and thinks she may have the cure — that we should have separate bank accounts.
(Incidentally, I am not sure if a resident of Dubai is called a Dubaian or a Dubaiite. Whenever this comes up for discussion in blogs, there is a huge heated debate among expats for some reason).
