text: Take 1 . Pushing through the throng of suit jackets, the smell of sweat haunted by stale aftershave. The bar was crowded. A typical Dubai drinking hole for advertising and film people. They called it the Red Lion, pretending that it was the same as you find in England. Except it wasn’t. Like the city, it was faux, built on dreams and hopes, rising from the sand of dry dusty life. It was my escape, this city, a haven for a film director. Being busy, pushing for the next job, networking was the way to fill life with money and meaning. From the hollowness of nothing. But that realization came later that night. After I reached the bottom. When I saw depression. Not felt it, saw it, like a glowering creature that enveloped my body with sadness, a fear that, if this was all life was about, then it was not worth it. As if it saw me, the real me, naked. Tonight though, I played at being buoyant, enjoying the noise of revels, inhaling the camaraderie of the film crew who smiled and offered me my double J@B scotch on the rocks. Any noise. Until there was none. Film crews, like theatre folk, believe the dream they are living. On location, away from family and kids and school trips, they hold onto each other, supporting the excitement of ‘Action, Roll Camera’ life until the next take. And then after the grueling day in the desert near Sharjah, in heat of forty degrees, they bond with alcohol and stories of the day. “Did you see how we nearly lost the camera in that shot of the Land cruiser sliding down the sand dune.” “Ja...I thought we were going to lose the light.” “Did the director know what he was doing?” The driver of the car wasn’t there to tell his side of the story; how I had insisted he breast the sand dune at high speed so that I could get a shot of the car in the air over the sand. “Cheers!” “Terrific day, Sir,” the cameraman said. “Here’s your Scotch!’ I downed it in one gulp. Exhausted, from the day’s concentration and the tension of being the director- the man in charge of the shoot. It is all an act- I must appear to be in charge, that all questions can be answered by me. Major imposter syndrome. They tell you that the best directors choose the most experienced crew to lessen the pressure. I found the reverse. Better people expect better knowledge from the man in charge. And I did not know enough. Constant questions which bludgeoned my creative vision to death. “What lens do you want, sir?” “Where do you think we should put the light. Sir?” “Don’t you think we need to have the car tyres blackened, sir?” “How long do you think it’ll take to clean the sand of wheel marks before the next take, sir?” “What time do you want to break for lunch, sir?” “Can we see the driver if the car in this shot, or do we use a double, sir?” “Time is running short. We will miss the sunset shot, sir.” “I’ll have another one, “I said. The barman nodded and I downed the scotch. The barman was used to film crews who over worked and overdrank. He smiled, handed me my change and I turned to watch the crew, most showing the effect of their drinks. They included me as manners, but not as one of their own. Directors were the people who were papal if they were considered good at their job, but unforgiven if they failed to meet the crews’ expectations. On this shoot I sensed a disdain behind their smiles. I sighed. The scales were falling off, I was beginning to hate this business, my ability to play the game. Perhaps I was just tired. “Reduced crew tomorrow,” said the assistant director. “You handle it, “I said. “It’s just postcard shots of dunes and thorn trees. I’ll begin the edit.” He looked chuffed to be given the responsibility. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He assumed a straighter posture when he told the crew. “The wanker said I will take the shot tomorrow,” he said. Well, that’s what I would have said. I pushed through the sweat and cigarette smoke, the retelling of the landrover flying over the sand dune; again. I left. The street was quiet outside the noise of the pub. It felt safe, away from the pressure of people drinking to enjoy themselves. I was empty. Double scotches had not filled the gap. These crew members weren’t friends; they were, at best colleagues. But the sinking thought, the realization that I did not respect them, that they certainly did not respect me hit me like the humidity fogging up my glasses. What was I looking for? That they should like me? That they should be impressed by my artistic skill? I had no answers. I did not want these thoughts. Another drink. I hailed a cab and headed for a bar in Satwa, where local Emiratis drank and picked up prostitutes. Take Two It was a fug of smoke and the feeling of being an outsider was comforting. No one knew me, had any expectations of me. The thobes and gutras thronged the bar. Ethiopian and Moroccan women perched on stools glad-eying the men. “Need a friend?” said one to me as I finished my first drink. “La, habibti,” I said. I was not in the market for sins of the flesh. The crowd was dense, and I caught a young dark man looking at me. Not visible at first, hidden behind customers and smoke I caught him staring again. His face came in and out of the light, as if he was dodging a spotlight. When I got a full view, I saw that he looked familiar, but I did not know him. I peered to see if perhaps he was with people I knew, but he was alone. Then, he nodded, moved. He walked slowly. Carefully. “I’m a student,” he said. “I saw you filming the Land rover. I was part of the crew to clean the car after every shot.” I laughed. A man emerging out of a cloud of cigarette smoke, commenting on my work. “Only brown people can clean cars on film sets,” he said, without irony. He was right. No white people were used as labour on film sets. I sighed and downed my drink. I could not get away from my career, even in this dank bar. “Must be paying you too much if you’re out drinking!” I said. He laughed. “I don’t drink. Don’t have the need.” His voice was deep and warm. Not like the voices of labourers who gabbled, as if the next moment would be their last. This man spoke without accent. At times I thought he and I had the same voice. He was a handsome man, in a Bollywood way, sweeping eyelashes and dark long hair. He reminded me of the actor from a Monkey King series I had watched on TV. Why was he here? “Never seen you here before,” I said. “Tonight, I wanted company.” “Why this bar?” He smiled. “If I go to a Western bar, they treat me like a waiter. Just like on the film set.” “Drink?” I offered. “Coke, or 7 UP?” He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. We stood at the bar, leaning against the counter, watching the ladies chat up the men, some leaving with customers, others patiently smoking. “Why here? “I said again. “Why not?” There was something strange about this guy. Normally labourer types don’t go into bars and talk to white men. He spoke to me as if we had met before. It felt odd, as if we were in our own searchlight at the bar. “And you? You’re the only westerner here.” He said. He was right, the only white man in the room. “An obvious client for the ladies.” We laughed. “I’m not here for that.” I said. “For what then?” I had no answer for this stranger, invading my space. But I remained silent. He would not know tonight was one of my worst times, doubting the person behind the mask was real. Perhaps he did, which he is why he came over. “You are very patient on the film set,” he said. “I don’t often feel it.” “I saw that. You work with people you don’t like. Who don’t like you. But you do the job.” “That’s what you have to do,” I said. “Bare spots and darkness.” “What?” “Walt Whitman. He said an artist must know lows and highs.” “I need another drink after that,” I said. “I’m going to the beach” he said. “Bit late for a swim.” “No swimming. I get peace there.” “I live on the beach.” I said. “I know. I was at your wrap party.” “For the last film?”? “Yes. But in your job, you don’t see people.” I felt stung. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Not me-second unit. I’m not necessary.” He turned and after a pause. “Your river. It’s your bridge you are crossing.” He had left by the time the drink arrived and the heat of the whisky, the promise of rest, eased me as I stared at the crowd; a tourist examining items in a window display he could not buy. “Double Scotch,” I said. Take Three The sand crunched though my toes as I stumbled towards the sea. The waves rippled along like a ribbon, white lights of foam suddenly spreading across the sand. In the distance, through the humid haze, the lights of the Burj Khalifa reached to the sky. The desire to have the tallest, the biggest, the fastest; the signature of Dubai. Using cheap labour from India and Iran, the city is an example of materialism at its best and worst. When I first arrived here, Indian labourers were forced to work during the hottest period of the day, some falling to their death from the scaffolding. Nowadays there are safety nets, and the hours are proscribed. But still they fall. Now into a net. My cottage, more of a lean-to really, overlooked an undeveloped part of the beach front. Built in the seventies as houses for the migrant labour to build the port, they were now occupied by artists and freelance film makers, like me. The rent was a pittance, the cottages were basic, built not to survive, but they did, and we took them over. I loved living there. I could control my expenses and choose which jobs I wanted, without money pressures. But the question would not go away. What would happen if I gave it up? I began to strip. I would swim. I left the bottle of whiskey on top of my clothes to stop them blowing away. I stumbled to the edge of the sand holding the shadow of the ebbing tide. Naked in the humidity was a release and I edged into the water. It was lukewarm, holding the heat of the day. As I waded out, I wondered would I have the strength to drown. It was then I felt, saw, an orange glow, threatening to push me under. Silent screams wrapped around me, suffocating me. Trickles of pain travelled through my arms, my feet, my face. I panicked. It must be the alcohol, I thought. Panting, I grasped a support for a flyover in construction.Bare concrete and stone. I held on to it until my breathing settled. I released my grasp of the pillar and turned to the shore. Soon my beach would be a carpark; my haven would be gone. Perhaps it was all leading to this moment. An attack of fear in the water. I dipped under, enjoying the brief sting of salt in my eyes. Slowly I swam and I stumbled back to the shore. In front of me was a lone figure, sitting cross legged, staring out at the ocean. Cast in shadows and light. The young man from the bar. Was he following me? I sat down beside him. I thought I would share his isolation. Obviously drunk. Sharing his isolation meant destroying it. Three more double scotches at the bar took me over the edge. Fear of leaving the comfort of anonymous people in search of sex and booze, of stepping into a real world, fueled my thirst. The first drink relaxed, stopped me pretending to be normal. It was exhausting to hide trembles of the person behind the mask. I sat down, cross legged and tried to work out what the man was staring at. Eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the boats. A light from the distance passed over us, like a lighthouse. There one minute, gone the next. He did not acknowledge me or react to my nakedness. Most Middle East people would avert their eyes from nakedness. He did not even notice. He was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt with sandals neatly arranged near his feet. This young man had punctured my thoughts, roiled me. We sat in silence. My mind was not. That night, I met despair. Whether he felt it or not, I cannot say, but he said. “That is my home.” I looked out over the black waves, every now and then punctuated by the lights of ships queueing for the harbour. “The ships?” “My country.” “I can’t see anything,” I said. “You will if you try.” I moved to get up. The man was obviously high or something. “Iran is across the sea from here.” I said. He turned to me and smiled. A gentle smile. “But it’s hundreds of miles away,” I said. “You can’t see it.” “It’s still there.” He said. The waves plashed along the shore, lights flicking, then gone, boats hazy in the distance. I offered him a swig from my bottle. He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. “So have I.” We sat in silence again, slowly watching the sky lighten. “You should dress.” He said."You must choose who sees you naked." Nudity on the beaches was not allowed. I grinned as I slipped on my clothes. “The secret police will think we are lovers.” “In a way we are,” he said. I remember frowning at him. “I was looking for a friend too.” I turned to trudge up to my house in the grey dawn. When I looked back, he was not there. * “The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor. The point of being an artist is that you may live.” Sherwood Anderson