Dubai: from sand to gold

Part 1: the Seen.

Source: personal archives, 2024.

Writing about a country that has already fueled so much ink and countless debates is undoubtedly a challenge. Monumental urban projects, images of an idyllic life flooding the media, a tax haven, but also mass exploitation of immigrant populations and controversial values—Dubai, like some of its neighbours, has remained a constant topic of conversation. Yet, having briefly experienced this singular world and tried to decipher its great complexity, I felt there was still room for a new narrative, however modest it might be.

For some time, the whole world has been rushing there: extravagant vacations or lucrative career prospects, each finding their own reasons. And yet, the idea of visiting—even briefly—had never crossed my mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. I had grown weary of the overexposure and the polarized opinions—between praise and harsh criticism—about a place described as extraordinary, emerged from barren lands in just a few decades.

One day, however, by a twist of fate, I had the opportunity to spend some time there. Without any particular obligations, and, I must admit, spurred by the curiosity that any unplanned journey awakens in me, I decided to give it a try. I approached this experience as a case of observation—a chance to uncover a place that, while not immediately appealing to me, was nonetheless fascinating in its contradictions.

It felt important to explore every part of this unique world, both seen and unseen, to understand its codes and the strange allure it holds despite its many controversies. Having already traveled through the Arabian Peninsula and gotten a glimpse of its history and culture, I hoped this immersion in the Emirates might deepen my understanding of a region that remains, to my mind, largely unknown.

Many questions still hang over Dubai and the Emirates. How does one grasp the impact of the sudden arrival of the oil industry and the staggering wealth it brought to a civilization that, for so long, thrived on so little? What remains today of the ancestral nomadic ways of life? Why did Dubai choose a path so different from some of its neighbours in its development strategy? And is it possible to bridge the carefully maintained division between the Emiratis and the endless stream of foreigners flowing through its borders?

Impressions

Arrival in Dubai, one December afternoon. Through the taxi windows on the way to the hotel, I recognize the fiery sunsets and the dim light of dusty winds from my time in Oman. But instead of the endless dunes of the Rub’ al Khali, an immense forest of skyscrapers rises before me, bathed in the last rays of the sun. The constant sound of traffic and the sight of excess bring to mind images I’ve often glimpsed in magazines. My first impression of Dubai is exactly what one would expect: extravagant urbanity, bold modernity, and a paradise for entertainment—a cityscape that unfolds as we approach the Marina. Fifteen years ago, this neighbourhood didn’t exist, and yet today it teems with people of all ages and backgrounds.

Beachside bars and restaurants, malls open around the clock, neon lights and wide canals lined with orderly rows of yachts. From here, the city feels like a giant carnival—artificial, dazzling, and slightly overwhelming. Certainly, Dubai cannot be confined to just this. Yet, as I wander through its crowded streets, looking at luxury cars and impeccably dressed visitors, I can’t help but wonder: what is the world that is not being shown to us?

A Facade

Dubai, a possible El Dorado for the wealthy and expatriates from all corners of the globe, draws people in with a unique convergence of factors: a business-friendly environment, economic stability, constant growth, luxurious living standards, a sense of security, and surprisingly tolerant social norms toward foreigners.

Again and again, I hear the same refrain: “Honestly, our quality of life has really improved since moving here.” And then there’s the bartender at a trendy restaurant of the financial district, who confidently declares: “Once you’ve lived in Dubai, you can’t live anywhere else.” A moment of silence follows, quickly swallowed by the festive chaos around: people smoking, sipping cocktails in pleasant company, with the recognizable beat of nightclub music and the murmur of conversations. Smiles seem brighter, manners more polished, ostentatious outfits carefully chosen. Across from me, a row of solitary men lean against the bar, waiting patiently, wallets in hand, for fortune—or perhaps a calculated gamble—to bring them some company.

And yet, before long, one grows accustomed to the comfort. The streets are spotless, safe, and constantly monitored. Everywhere, doors open for you, and here is an immediate rush to inquire after your mood—should you need any further attention. This pervasive courtesy has a curious effect: inflating our ego and lulling us into a pleasant illusion of importance. Even without the means for a life of true luxury, it feels close enough to touch, and we begin to drift, almost imperceptibly, into a state of passive contentment.

The City’s Anatomy

The city stretches lengthwise, from the old souk district near the Sharjah border to the Marina, divided from north to south by an immense highway —an escape route impossible to navigate during rush hour. Between the business district with its Burj Khalifa and adjacent Mall, and the Marina, lie a variety of neighbourhoods: rows of opulent seaside villas and more modest zones, where narrow streets and the apparent chaos feel weirdly out of place in this otherwise orderly, pristine universe. Everywhere, new developments rise, some still under construction, others abandoned—like a peculiar seaside complex deserted by investors, where cafés and shops never opened. I wander through it, feeling as though I’ve stepped into a ghost town.

Beneath this sprawling mass of construction and cyclopean towers, it’s hard to grasp the essence of the place. The fortified town that once stood here—a modest settlement founded by nomadic tribes thousands of years ago to develop pearl fishing—now survives as little more than a cluster of meticulously renovated houses designed for tourists. Around it, the city’s earliest layers, now the bustling Ayal Nasir district, house a diverse migrant population in a maze of bazaars largely abandoned in favor of shopping malls.

Dubai’s transformation truly began in the early 20th century with the rise of maritime trade, but it was the discovery and exploitation of oil in the 1970s that shaped the metropolis we know today. In 1969, the city’s population was just 59,000; by 1977, it had grown to 200,000. Today, it stands at nearly 3.5 million, 80% of whom are not nationals.

In less than fifty years, an entirely new world has emerged from the sands. And day after day, I watch streets freshly unwrapped from their packaging, still waiting to prove themselves against time. The strangeness of this place, I believe, lies precisely here: in the irreconcilable images it presents. The austere, nomadic Bedouin tribes of the past, and the towers of glass and concrete that now dominate the skyline. Two worlds that observe one another but never truly meet—perhaps by design.

However, as I believe I have already pointed out, one of the virtues of a careful traveler lies in their ability to see and seek what is hidden from view. A quality all the more relevant in Dubai, where the more obscure sides are perhaps more skillfully concealed than anywhere else. Having noted the seen, it will soon be time to turn to the unseen.

To be continued…

Source: personal archives, 2024.

References:

• Dubai, glitz or glitch : a portrait of a dreamed city in recessionary times, Marc Lavergne, 2009

• City of Gold. Dubai and the Dream of Capitalism, Jim Krane, 2009

• From rags to riches: a story of Abu Dhabi, Mohammad Al Fahim, 1995

• Arabian Sands, Wilfred Thesiger, 1950