Freedom and the Great Man of Dubai

The first time I came to Dubai—on one of my brief stopovers between the Anglophone mother-country and its remotest offshoot—I went to the beach. After a jetlag-induced slumber on the sunbed I woke to see: a couple getting off a pair of camels after a trek; a woman falling off an inflatable obstacle course into the water; a man teetering uncertainly on the twin water-jets fired vehemently downwards by his jet-pack; and, off in the middle-distance, at least three jet-skis. There’s a lot going on here.

That, of course, won’t be news to anyone who’s been here, even on a stopover; to anyone who’s watched an episode of the BBC’s Inside Dubai; or to anyone who’s been exposed to the city-state’s propaganda. Much of which, of course, is accurate. The city really is home to a dizzying array of boutiques and beaches. It really is full of fresh real estate, just waiting to be scooped up—if you’ve got the money, obviously. It really is the site of a vertigo-inducing…