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When I was young, I had a childhood fantasy about Dubai. I imagined it as this magical, dazzling faraway city at the edge of the world. When I finally moved to Dubai eight years ago, I didn’t know it then, but I was just about to embark on an emotional rollercoaster. The moment I stepped out of the airport building, I literally choked on humidity. None of my fantasies had prepared me for the unforgiving heat. See I lived in company accommodation that was smack in the middle of Dubai’s largest labor camp. My premises however was an oasis in the desert compared to my neighbors. There was a forbidding perimeter fence and a stern looking guard to keep us in. Ignoring the guard’s warning, I snuck out the very next day to explore. The stark contrast of my accommodation and the surrounding buildings was palpable. As far as I could see, there was not a single woman in sight. Men were everywhere. They were sitting or standing in groups, and staring at me as if I was a UFO. Soon after I realized the reason; my accommodation was the only one in the whole camp that housed women. I just nodded and walked on, taking in the depressing surroundings. There was garbage strewn everywhere and raw foul smelling sewerage seeping on to the road. I did this trip often. I watched as men got ferried out at dawn and back after sunset from various construction sites in the city. They always looked so tired and frail. They were a far cry from site workers back home who dictated payment terms, and notoriously punished site managers with boycotts. I wondered what were their stories. I often tried to start a conversation at the grocery, but most could only speak their ethnic languages. I did enjoy attempting sign language though and it often made the sun cracked faces break into smiles albeit very shy ones. On one particular morning, I noticed some workers carrying clear plastic bags filled with what looked like soup and rice, at the beginning of their shift. When I got back from work, I quickly rushed to the grocery down the road to speak to the attendant who was slowly becoming a friend of sorts. When I inquired about it, he informed me that the labor camps didn't provide food for the men. They had to pool their meagre resources and cook together so as to save and stretch the month until pay day. They would bring the rice mixed with soup to work and eat it over the one hour break they got halfway through their twelve hours shift. My friend Ali was from Bangladesh, and had not been home in seven years. He couldn't afford to call home as he preferred to send fifty dollars to support his family. That's all he could afford, otherwise he would be forced to starve. “I am lucky, I don’t work at the sites. This is an easy job. My friends are not that lucky.” He told me. He hoped to finish his contract, pay off debts back home and get home to his family. I was heartbroken. There were a thousand Alis stone throw away from where I lived. It was time to see a bit of the Dubai of my fantasy. Something a little less despondent. First on my list was the Burj Al Arab. Mercifully it was as magnificent as I had imagined it would be, although I only saw its exterior. I stood there watching it, silently trying to summon the feelings I had as a child but the magic was missing. I found it impossible to reconcile the opulence in front of me and the poverty stricken waste land where I lived. Next I visited the Burj Khalifa. That building is truly a piece of work, so imposing that I couldn't get it to fit in my camera. As I sat in silent contemplation, watching tourists and residents alike milling around it snapping away with frenzy and just awed by it all. I realized at that moment there can't be any place in the world like Dubai. It was a kaleidoscope of sorts.