DUBAI: A Tale of Two Cities

Image by Alexa Zabache, sourced from Pexels.

We fly into Dubai over gardens of sand. New suburbs in the desert, with fences and driveways and cars, but no green lawns.

I am soon to be unconvinced about this city; torn between old and new. The new is startling; buildings pierce the skyline like ancient daggers. On the ground in the old souks, Arabs pounce out of their stalls to beckon you in – their persistence is intimidating.

I expect Dubai to be a congestion of sound, and a crush of people––but I had this vision that the souks would be something out of Indiana Jones, frozen in time. I want an old souk, but the reality doesn’t quite match the fantasy.

We head into a souk that lies on the banks of the ‘Creek’ running through Dubai. The Creek is crammed with clusters of old boats loaded with produce from China, spilling onto the docks like rubbish and reloaded, bound for Iran.

Our Pakistani taxi driver is lovely and friendly and he says he shares a small flat with two other men for 1000dirhams a month (about A$350) – he sends US $2000 back to his family in Pakistan every month.

‘Families are expensive,’ he says.

‘Have you been to Australia?’ we ask.

‘No, but I’d like to. I have a friend who’s been. Australia is far far away.’

Yes, it is.

Image by Kate Trysh, sourced from Pexels.

Inside the market place, some of the little laneways remind me of any market anywhere, with crappy little plastic toys and thousands of pashmina shawls. I want to buy one, but the minute I touch one, three stall-holders descend upon me, touching the silk and the cashmere, goading and begging me to buy and I shake my head and walk away. I think we are so accustomed to indifference in Australian customer service, I find the whole experience of a market exhausting and intrusive––and want to get out.

The one redeeming feature of the old souk is the spice merchants. Buckets filled with frankincense, turmeric, pistachios, barrels of colour filled to the brim. I buy saffron threads, turmeric for my husband, who sprinkles this good spice on lots of things and some pistachios for us all to share with a gin and tonic when we get to Rome. There are lots of spice traders, some in traditional dress, some in jeans and t-shirts – I barter my stash down from $285 Dirhams to $150 dirhams…..

Hmm about half price off. from A$100 to $55. My husband would be proud.

We then head off to Grand Souk, which is geared for tourists, with prices to match, There’s something romantic, however, about the recreation of an ancient bazaar, and strangely I don’t care that it’s new. I love the feel of it, and I can pretend it’s not new at all. Most probably, that’s been the aim of the developers. Here you’ll find bags, shoes, clothing, jewellery, ceramics and lanterns. Anything.

In the new areas of Dubai, no one walks. Instead, roads teem with cars riding the arterials and veins of the city. Cars hug the foundations of high rise buildings like scattered confetti around their bases.

We take a cab back to The Palace, our hotel and with some sort of relief and some sense of middle eastern romance returned as we sink onto our plush pillow-top beds for a brief rest. With the exception of Sofitel Hotels, this is the best hotel bed I’ve ever slept in. It’s like a cloud.

We stayed at The Palace Downtown, Dubai.

The interior of The Palace is moody and sophisticated with crisp white linen, gracious timber bed heads, decorative fretwork and subtle lighting. Out of the window the man-made canal laps at the edge of the hotel promenade and palm trees stand like silent sentinels. The air is thick with smog.

Alcohol is permitted in hotels, and we’re happy to sip G&T’s on the terrace by the pool. There’s a well-heeled Arab in traditional white robes and keffiyeh, beside us smoking a shisha, staring straight ahead. He is either meditating while he smokes or is deliberately ignoring the Western women in his midst. His energy is unsettling. We’re giggling and order a shisha ourselves and smoke some sweet herbal concoction, which is unsurprisingly unproductive, if you’ve ever smoked tobacco.

The most bizarre contrast is the old style of the hotel, pitched against the rocket-like skyscraper next door. But I am entranced by the fact I’m in the Middle East—the stuff of magic carpets, brass genie bottles and Aladdin-styled slippers—and I realise how badly I want to immerse myself in the past, not the future.

Although, I admit, the new architecture here is in itself is astounding and beyond anything I’ve seen in the West.

Image by AXP Photography, sourced from Pexels.

We decide we must visit the Dubai Mall next door and I’m not sure why. It’s like any other shopping plaza, overstuffed with well-known chains, except the women’s fashion products, are designed for the Islamic market. I don’t find the women here very warm or friendly and they eye us with suspicion. We’re a group of seven western women, all blonde haired bar one—probably pretty loudand we stand out, I guess. I will say, we are all respectfully dressed, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I for one, feel judged.

We need lunch, so we grab a table in a restaurant alongside the 30-acre Burj Lake and Dubai water fountain, (which is conveniently located between our hotel and the shopping mall). Later on into the cool evening, we hear music, and like moths drawn to flame, we wander back down and discover the most captivating music and light show, with the fountains of water dancing to the classical beats.

It’s quite possibly my favourite experience in Dubai, but I am desperately jet lagged and in need of sleep.

I think—as I yawn—and sink into my delicious cloud mattress—two experiences we haven’t squeezed in include a tour of the Burj hotel or riding a camel into the desert. Maybe that would tip Dubai into the blue for me?

Next time, I think. Or will there be a next time? I’m really not sure. I’m still in two minds.

Maybe Muscat instead…?

Edited 2025, Originally Published: May 3, 2013