Homesick. Dubai 2010
The traffic is bumper to bumper for at least a kilometre ahead of us; car horns beep but nothing moves.
‘Jeeysus, this is desperate,’ says Maeve.
‘Sure it’s Eid, the whole feckin’ city is at the beach today,’ I reply.
‘Let’s go, we’ll be quicker walkin’’ She yanks her wallet from her bag and counts money for the taxi driver. We grab our stuff and get out onto Jumeirah Beach Road. It’s almost 3 o’clock and it’s baking hot. To escape the roar of the traffic, we turn a corner onto a quieter shaded street. On either side of us carcasses of half built apartment buildings rise up into the sky. At the end of a narrow lane, the turquoise sea sparkles beyond beige sand dunes. We cross the road and see a long line of blue uniformed construction workers sitting quietly on the pavement, their hard hats lie in front of them. They look up as we walk by, I feel their eyes follow us but shift away when they meet ours. Bare knees and shoulders peek out from the torn material of their uniforms.
‘Jeeysus, the state of them,’ Maeve whispers. Her sun hat suddenly falls off her head and is swept out of her hands by a freak hot gust of wind. I chase after it as it trundles along the dusty path. A figure in blue reaches it first. He picks it up and wipes it off.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Welcome,’ he replies.
‘You speak English.’
‘Little bit.’
I take the hat, his eye are a deep shade of brown, his face is streaked with sweat and dirt. He smiles; his teeth are bright white.
‘Very good,’ I say.
‘I am from Nepal.’
‘I’m from Ireland. How do you know English?’
‘We have lots of tourists in Kathmandu,’ he explains.
‘Oh yes, they hike in the Himalayas.’
‘Yes.’
‘Today is Eid, why are you working?’
He shrugs his shoulders, ‘holiday tomorrow.’
Maeve catches up to us, ‘thanks for saving my hat!’ she enunciates slowly.
‘Welcome,’ he repeats.
‘Woooow, you speak English,’ she says, as if he’s much farther away.
‘Thanks.’ I put my hand out to shake his. His palm is rough against mine.
‘Bye now, thanks again,’ Maeve says. He walks back around the corner where the other men are. ‘Right come on missus, or there’ll be no spot left on the beach.’
I follow her. We’re quiet for a few moments.
‘Jeeysus, can you imagine ending up with one of them fellas?’ she suddenly asks.
‘Them fellas? What do you mean? Like Nepalese.’
‘No, I mean them fellas, as in the fellas that work on the buildin’ sites. The feckin’ labourers Ciara, jeeysus do I have to spell it out for ya?’
‘They’re construction workers,’ I say.
‘Ah but you know what I mean, I think they earn about 400 euros a month like!’
‘I never saw you turn your nose up at a builder in Limerick.’
‘Ah but that’s totally different, that was the Celtic Tiger, sure they were all loaded.’
‘Well at least the labourers have jobs, none of the builders at home do!’
‘Fair point,’ she agrees.
‘Jesus Maeve, you sound like Jen now, the recession has everyone obsessed with money, who has it, who’s lost it.’
‘And who’s chasing after it,’ Maeve adds, I know she means Jen.
‘Let’s pull our loungers closer to the sea,’ I say to Maeve.
‘I can’t be arsed, I’m wrecked after all that running around.’
The heat makes us lethargic. Even the sea can’t be bothered moving here, it laps lazily against the shore. When we eventually drag ourselves into it, it feels like tepid bath water. We sit by the edge.
‘Wonder how Jen is getting on today?’ I ask Maeve. She raises the huge sun glasses that almost swallow her face.
‘Woootersports,’ she mimicks, in a posh accent, ‘the only woootersports that bitch ever did was the flipping belly flop below in the aquadome in Tralee.’
I laugh but she’s mocking our oldest friend.
‘She’s not the Jen I knew back in college, the Jen I knew wouldn’t be carrying on with a shower of posh twats,’ Maeve continues.
‘She came out here alone, Maeve.’
‘She even changes her accent around them! I’m not changing my accent for anyone,’ Maeve declares.
I say nothing but at school, when the parents go to her classroom to collect their kids, she speaks in a way that’s far less County Limerick than the way she speaks in Fibber Magees’ Bar on a Friday night.
‘Sure I’ve to put on an American accent so the kids in my class can understand me,’ I tell her.
‘That’s different Ciara and you know it.’
I sigh, maybe, I’d been hoping Dubai might be like teacher training college in Limerick, the three of us together. We used to call ourselves the three amigos. Maeve and I followed Jen to Dubai when we got sick to death of listening to all the recession shite and lost hope of ever getting a permanent job.
‘Sure feck it, why not?’ Mam said when I told her I was going, ‘haven’t you walked the streets of Ennistymon long enough!’
‘I hope you won’t be bringing a fella in a funny hat home with you now mind,’ Dad said.
‘Let’s hope she does! Sure they’re all loaded. Not like the poor feckers she’ll find here fillin’ up the dole queue,’ my sister Jacqueline said, setting my dad off on his ‘Jesus Christ, the state of the country and what is going to become of us at all, sure there’ll be no one left,’ speech. I don’t miss that.
The second day of the Eid holiday is busier than the first, I can barely see the marble floor of the Dubai Mall. I dodge in, out and around groups as they crowd everywhere. Clusters of labourers in salwar khamees wander about taking pictures outside Coach and Tiffany’s. I watch a group gather by a Burbury shop, they peer inside, a security guard comes forward and shoos them away. They move on without protest. I arrive early to Bookworld where I’d arranged to meet Jen.
I wander around the shelves and find a cosy spot to sit. A shadow falls across my book. I look up and see him. He looks very different out of the blue uniform.
‘Hi,’ I say, startled, I feel my face changing colour.
‘Hi,’ he replies, he’s wearing blue jeans and a faded red t-shirt that’s stretched across his chest. His face is clean today; he has high cheekbones.
‘Are you getting books?’ I ask, immediately regretting it, like he can afford anything here. I can barely afford anything here.
‘No, just looking.’
A security guard walks by.
‘Where are your friends?’
‘Walking in the mall.’
‘I love this shop,’ I say.
‘I like books, but my English…still learning.’
‘How many years are you in Dubai?’
‘Four years,’ he replies, ‘you?’
‘A few months,’ I answer, ‘I’m getting coffee here, if you want one.’
‘Ok,’ he replies and as we sit drinking coffee he tells me his name is Soumy and he goes to free English lessons on Fridays at the American University, they’re for men from the labour camps. I ask him about Nepal. He tells me some words in his language, they’re little jewels slipping from his mouth. His lips are red. He writes some Nepalese script on the coffee receipt, to me it’s like calligraphy.
‘Ciara,’ I hear, Jen strides towards us and I stand to hug her, she towers over me in sky high wedges and white jeans, her Chanel bag hangs off her arm. She told us once that it’s real but Maeve said that she was full of shit and it probably fell off the back of a lorry in Karama.
‘Hey, this is my friend Soumy,’ I tell her, he gets up to go.
‘Bye, nice to see you again.’ He leaves quickly.
I put the receipt in my bag.
‘Who was that?’ Jen asks.
‘A guy I bumped into yesterday at the beach with Maeve.’
On hearing Maeve’s name Jen pulls a face. It’s shit being stuck in the middle.
‘She says I’ve changed Ciara, what about her like?’ I say nothing. ‘Oh come on Ciara! She’s always shit faced! She knocks it back and then insults people. It’s so embarrassing.’
I remember the night she’s talking about, we’d been invited to a birthday party for one of Jen’s friends at a bar downtown. The first time we’d met them, we ended up in the fanciest place I’d ever set eyes on and me and Maeve were completely underdressed. So the second time we did the opposite. We went all out, mini dresses, fake tan, heels. We felt bloody gorgeous till we got there. Jen and her friends wore teeny cut-off shorts and flip flops. Then we felt like mutton dressed as lamb, or spam as Maeve says. Jen was mortified.
‘No one gets dressed up on a Tuesday night,’ she hissed at us.
‘You told us it was feckin’ ladies’ night, Jennifer!’ Maeve hissed back.
Later on, Maeve was trying to make an effort to chat to people. She asked a long legged girl where she’d recommend for her birthday brunch.
‘Oh yeah, I heard you say earlier you’re going to be turtee tree, that’s so funny.’
Everyone laughed, Jen the loudest. Maeve went puce, she hates anyone mocking her accent. Later in the evening when giraffe-girl made some other smart arse comment, plastered Maeve said, ‘oh shu’ the fuck up ye silly cow.’ She scooped ice cubes from her empty glass and fired them down giraffe woman’s string top. You’d swear Maeve had shot her the way she reacted.
I look across at Jen now, her mauve lips match her nails, her eyebrows are threaded and shaped. Her long brown hair is freshly blow dried. Maeve says she’s a Jumeirah Jane wannabee, well she certainly looks the part.
‘How are you anyway Ciara?’
I never know how to the answer that. ‘Grand,’ I say.
‘Do you fancy that guy?’
‘No,’ I reply but typically, a flush creeps over my cheeks.
‘Right, come on, let’s get some shopping done, we need to look hot for the boat party!’
The three storey boat is moored next to Dubai Marina Yacht club.
‘It’s just like the Galway Hooker isn’t it?’ jokes Maeve, referring to the little tug boat that carried us from Doolin to Inis Mór a lifetime ago. I puked the whole way.
The midday sun is straight above us and blinding. Sweat pools in my arm pits. We squint as Jen and her friends clip clop towards us on dainty heels. They are dressed almost identically: tiny plunging v-necked beach dresses over string bikinis. They sashay by an Emirati family in ankle length local dress. A red carpet covers the bridge onto the yacht. The main deck is two flights up. As we emerge into the sunlight, we join dozens of others. An usher exchanges tickets for paper wristbands. The air smells of cigarette smoke and sun tan oil. A whistle blows and the boat pulls away from the dock, pointed towards the Arabian Gulf. Music suddenly booms from the huge loudspeaker right above us and a cheer goes up. My stomach heaves and I can’t decide if it’s excitement or seasickness.
‘It’s brunch o’clock!’ trills Jen. We all follow her down the stairs into the bar area to get some ‘free’ cocktails. Maeve’s already been sipping vodka from a flask hidden in her bag. It’s crazy hot but Jen and her friends look like they’ve strolled through a morning mist whereas Maeve and I could have been in a sauna. My make-up rolls off my face in oily beads, Maeve’s too. There’s a knot in my stomach.
‘We need pictures ladies!’ decides one of Jen’s friends and we trail after her with our cocktails in hand. On the bow of the boat, there are hordes of women draping themselves off railings. They’re so skinny I wonder how their internal organs can fit. Jen’s friends start to disrobe, so does Maeve. I offer to take the picture rather than do the same. Maeve’s fake tan is orange and patchy around the heels and elbows. She stumbles a little, I don’t know if it’s the vodka or the rocking of the boat. My own stomach is definitely feeling queasy now. There’s a group of guys standing near us on the bow. Their tanned torsos gleam in the sunlight. The girls in our group flick their locks at them. Maeve is wobbling now and I realise that she’s drunk already. She bumps into one of the guys, ‘Ah come ‘ere sorreee lads,’ she slurs, ‘are yee havin’ a good time?’ They ignore her. One of Jen’s friends seizes the opportunity, she barges past Maeve she pushes up her fake breasts as she talks to the guys. Within seconds, all the other girls in our group have a formed a bigger one with the guys. Maeve and I are left standing outside it.
‘Lesh go to the bar,’ she drawls at me and grabs me by the hand.
In the bar area, groups of people dance and sing. Maeve shoves a shot of baby Guinness into my hand and instructs me to down it, then a Jagermeister. My stomach is doing cartwheels. I can’t drink. A while later, Jen and her friends and the group of guys return to the bar area.
‘Wha’ are yee having to drink boys?’ Maeve asks them, she’s wobbling on her heels.
They look at her and again ignore her. A guy with a rugby build has an arm around Jen’s shoulders and she’s beaming. Another guy is deep in conversation with Jen’s friend’s fake breasts.
‘Are you Irish too?’ one of the guys asks me.
‘I am yeah.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ciara,’ I tell him.
‘Wow and you’ve red hair, could you be any more Irish!’
The group laughs.
Jesus Christ.
‘Seriously! Could you be any more of a fucking eejit like?’ Maeve asks, but the music has grown softer so it comes out way louder than she meant. Things go quiet.
‘That’s just rude Maeve,’ Jen scolds.
‘Yeah, there’s no place for rudeness here,’ one of her friends agrees.
‘We’re just having a bit of fun,’ one of the guys says.
Maeve just stands there. I know she didn’t mean it the way it sounded.
‘You need to take a bit of a chill pill,’ another friend points out.
‘Oh would you just fuck off!’ Maeve yells at her, this time she definitely meant it the way it sounded. She topples over her own feet and falls on her arse into a puddle of water on the floor. The group turn their backs to her. She’s completely shit faced and looks like she’s about to vomit.
My stomach somersaults and I feel the baby Guinness coming up my throat. I grab Maeve by the hand and drag her to a nearby toilet, neither of us makes it to the bowl, Maeve leaves a trail of orange puke across the floor into the cubicle. We take turns retching. Maeve’s breakfast special is in the toilet bowl, fried eggs on toast washed down by a shot of neat vodka. My bran flakes from this morning are staring up at me. There’s sick all down our tops and all over the floor. Maeve’s hair has bits of egg in it, trails of mascara run down her face, her red lipstick is smeared.
We’ve just stopped vomiting and are standing by the sink when the door opens. Giraffe girl walks in and flashes us a look.
‘You really hurt Jen’s feelings you know,’ she tells us.
As she turns to go into a cubicle her skinny heeled sandals slip on the wet floor and she falls, arse first into a pool of Maeve’s orange vomit. We stare as she tries to pick herself up but it’s like we’re watching a baby giraffe learning to walk, she keeps slipping and landing on her backside, again and again. Maeve helps her up.
‘Here,’ Maeve says, ‘I’ve a spare pair,’ she shoves flip flops at her.
She gives a quick mumbled ‘thanks,’ without looking at us and walks out of the toilet.
‘We look like crap,’ a soberer Maeve says.
‘When the boat docks, let’s go back to the apartment and eat pizza, I can’t be arsed with this shit anymore,’ I decide.
Maeve’s eyes brim with tears, ‘I fuckin’ hate this place sometimes.’
‘Me too.’
We clean ourselves up and find a quiet area far away from the music. A waiter gives us bottles of water. The boat has turned around and is sailing back towards Dubai. The sun has set and it’s dark now. The tower blocks sparkle. We lean against a railing looking across the black expanse of water between us and the city. At night time, it almost looks magical.
‘I’m so lonely Ciara,’ Maeve says.
‘I know, me too,’ I tell her.
‘You never want to go out anymore.’
‘You get so drunk Maeve.’
She eyes the vomit on my top, ‘you’re hardly sober Susan yourself.’
‘Maeve, come on like, you know what I mean, you went to Fibber’s on your own last week. You’d take the piss out of auld lads back in Abbeyfeale for doing that.’
‘Where do you go on Fridays, you just disappear.’
I shrug, ‘different places, I like wandering around.’
‘Did you meet someone?’
‘I dunno really, I sometimes meet the guy from the labour camp, I might help out with the English lessons soon. Come with me sometime if you want?’
‘Yeah, I might.’
We hug, it’s the most sober I’ve seen her in ages. When we’re back on the marina, we hail a taxi. Jen and her friends are nowhere to be seen.
Sinéad Ryan is a former primary school teacher who now teaches English. She spent many years living in the middle east but currently lives in Limerick. Her writing has appeared in the Irish Independent and Still Standing magazine. She is currently working on her first novel.
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