Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Detained in Dubai (Part II of III)


As I heard the heavy door slam shut behind me, I found myself locked in a windowless white room with a half dozen disheveled looking men, one of whom immediately pointed out that it was going to be a lot longer than “5 minutes”.  The smell of old urine on the walls was made only more apparent by the sight of the stains confirming my senses initial deduction.  There were blankets on the floor (surrounded by the urine stains/smells), so one could curl up for a cozy slumber.  The metal bench already had two men fighting for space & semi-asleep, so the floor/blanket was really the only option.  The good blankets were taken by the others fortunate enough to arrive before me. 
After several hours of intermittently almost falling asleep and being called back out for questioning, myself, along with my half dozen holding cell compatriots, were led out to a hallway.  Standing in a line dazed & confused, a large police officer motioned to the first in line who was just in front of me.  The poor bastard was looking at the floor and the cop made a slight gesture for the guy to put his hands in front of him to be hand cuffed.  The fellow didn’t understand or see the motion – BAM! – punched in the chest & berated in Arabic for his insolence! Then both his hands were right about where the cop wanted...clutching his chest (but keeled over).  The cop then handcuffed my confused and battered friend to my right wrist.  He did the same down the line (minus the chest punch) and threw us all in a van.  We made various stops but got no responses to our questions, and were essentially clueless and blind. 

After a good half hour, we arrived at another police station and were swiftly escorted inside. I patiently waited on another cold metal bench, still handcuffed to my confused new friend.  One by one we were taken into a room to be administered a breathalyzer test, a blood test, and to be finger printed again (we were also finger printed and breathalyzed at the first station).  I refused a blood test – I prefer my plasma be left inside me whenever possible – but this actually wasn’t a problem.  Instead of a blood test I was “forced” to allow them to take my picture.  That was the only reasonable thing to happen so far in the whole ordeal.

Back into the hot van.  Still no information on what the hell was going on.  Was I being charged with a crime?  Were we going to be released any time soon?  Can I have some #@$%ing water??? The answer to my second question seemed to be becoming more bleak with each passing moment.  I arrived back at the first police station, and was again interrogated. 
“What is your name” he asked, while starring at a piece of paper with my name in bold/caps and a lot of writing in incomprehensible Arabic.

“Tristan Jordan”
“Uhh....Christien.....Goo...”
“No - Tristan Jordan, it’s right here on this paper that you are looking at” long pause & slow index finger typing.
“Why did you break the bank machine?”   
“I didn’t, it took my atm card.”
“This is very bad – the bank will not be happy.”
“I didn’t break it, you can’t break a bank machine.”
“Why did you break the bank machine?  You are a gentleman.  You should not steal.”
“I didn’t break it, it took my card and I tried to get my card back. We (Jenn) unplugged the machine and that didn’t work so we left.”
“You should not have broken the bank machine.”
“I didn’t, it took my atm card.”
“What is your name?” 


(*note - you can see my name in the upper right)



Believe it or not, this exchange continued for some time in this manner, and happened more than once.  My blood is boiling just typing the circular questioning.

At around the same time of this brilliant interrogation, Jenn was frantic and heartbroken back in our hotel room. The “Rescue Tristan” Command Centre had been established on the hotel room bed as phone calls were made to Canada, Australia, various embassies and even a British NGO for those detained in Dubai. By 9am Jenn’s sister had found a fellow wedding guest (Annabelle) on facebook and called the hotel to send her to be with Jenn to help her cope. At 11am Jenn and Annabelle returned to the station to demand for my release. This time in a more polite and demure, covered up way - as exposed skin of a female is frowned upon. 
 
She brought a change of clothes for me, some water, and some medication (as I had a very bad infection on my leg from an earlier burn – motorcycle related, not Dubai).  The guard would only allow me to speak with her through the barred window, did not allow the change of clothes, and almost didn’t let her give me water to take my medication!  I had to show them my festering leg to prove I needed them (picture excluded for your befit...trust me).  I was allowed to drink the water from the bottle to take the pills, but couldn’t keep it!  I was incredibly happy for the pain killers.  My leg hurt, but more importantly my head hurt.  I was quite hungry, but at least I finally got some water after about 8 hours of requesting liquids.  The guards assured me I would be released soon.
 

Jail
 

2:00pm
Wake up white man.

I had finally got a consistent couple hours or so of sleep when I was awoken to be “allowed” into general population.  Out of the holding cell and in a smaller room a guard frisked me while asking a series of questions in Arabic.  I had to remove my shoes, belt, jacket, blazer, shirt, and my pants.  Luckily he didn’t go the distance and I got to keep my dignity. I was then handed a box of food (picture airplane meal minus the frill), a cup of water, and sent through two separate, locked, and heavy prison doors.  Passing the prison rooms, two bunk beds a room, it appeared that there was room for almost 100 people.

Beyond the bedrooms I entered the “outside”.  As I stepped out to the fresh air, I was greeted by 30’ white walls topped with barbed wire. Dozens of sets of eyes pierced through me as I recalled jail fight scenes from countless movies.  I looked around and did not see one other white guy in the room.  I couldn’t read anyone’s face – whether there was any anger sent in my direction.  Was there racial tension?  Would people want to rough me up for showing up in jail in a suit?  Are there really people who would feel the need to “initiate” me?
 
I picked the one table that didn’t have anyone sitting at it to focus on my meal and keep quite.  The chicken was boiled to bland.  This marked the first time I ate rice without a utensil.  We could not be trusted with cutlery; therefore I was eating chicken and rice with my fingers...not an easy task!  After about ten minutes of solitude, I was approached by a shorter Indian fellow.  Thick beard, glasses, and luckily, a smile. 

“We are taking bets over there...where did you come from?”
“I came from a wedding”
“Ahhhhhh......now THAT makes more sense!  We were guessing you worked at a bar, or owned a bar, or just got a little too dressed up to go to the bar.  Wedding sounds about right!  What did you do?”
“Apparently I broke a bank machine, but what really happened was.....”
“Oh, that sounds complicated.  You might be here for a long time”
“No no, I should be out today”
“Haha – hmmm...yes, you may need to learn some patience.  You are in Dubai now.  Things work....differently”
“What are you here for?”


My new friend (we will call him “Archie”) was happy to tell me his story.  Archie and his companions were an aspiring comedy crew – the Kids in the Hall of the Emirates perhaps.  They had regular jobs as well, most of which were in the tech industry.  They were hoping that by making a series of internet videos they could get picked up and make a legit career in the entertainment industry.  They had made a few videos and apparently had a bit of a good following and were gaining momentum.  Their niche was spoofing popular TV shows aired in Dubai.  One of which was a show that portrayed a military training base and techniques about 100 miles from Dubai.  Archie and his pals thought it would be funny to lampoon this popular military show and staged a fake training facility.  They filmed themselves training as members of the United Arab Emirates Army, but instead of weapons used things like turbans, and sandals.  Shortly after posting the spoof, there were many positive reviews on youtube and they were happy with their latest installment.  Then one day the police showed up at each of their houses and individually brought them into the police station for “questioning”.  That was a month ago. 

Apparently someone had alerted the authorities that their video was a threat to national security, an apparent terrorist video!  Archie and pals were shocked, appalled and confused.  They have a few lawyers working on their case, but it turns out that it is the first of its kind!  Without a precedent set, they have to see it through – although no formal charges had been laid.  Their lawyers gave little advice aside from “be patient”.  Archie told me the reason his beard was getting long was that he refused to use the one communal shaver that was passed around the roughly 120 people there, and would not shave until he was released. I saw the shaver, I would have done the same.  He also let me know that he didn’t think I would be there as long as him, but it would be best that I too follow his lawyers advice and prepare for patience.

 
Luckily for me, Archie and the other inmates were mostly harmless and some were friendly.  In the month he had been here he had only witnessed one fight and it was between two men who were brought in together.  Water was scarce, but I managed to meet the guy to talk to get more.  Very, very sweet tea was available at all times.  It was the closest thing to an activity available.  Getting a cup of tea.  Cell phones were not allowed.  Magazines were not available.  Not even books really – aside from about fifty copies of the Koran, in Arabic.  I spent a good portion of the day in a cell with Archie and the guy who distributed water & the meals.  He got the job of giving out food because he had been there the longest.  7 months.  His story changed slightly each of the three times he told it.  From what I could gather, he was from Uganda, but was living in Dubai because he was a professional soccer player in Europe who made $50,000 per week (which works out to $2.6million/year!).  But he got in a street fight and went a little overboard and severely hospitalized 6 people. 

Other colourful individuals I was privy to meet were mainly drinking/driving cases who crashed and caused either commercial damage, or damage to other people, also a few people in for tax, cheque, or credit card fraud, a couple people who didn’t want to talk about it, and two rapists.  As a white person, I wasn’t allowed to talk to any of the Arabs.  I only spoke with the other foreigners, which were all either from Africa, or India – and generally stayed away from speaking with the locals.

The bathroom was the most unhappy place on earth.  I will not go into details, but rather leave a space between this paragraph and the next for your imagination to fill in the blanks.

 

 

....

 

 

 

Time for dinner.  I would say perhaps we had curry? I assume curry because it was served with a big naan like pitta bread.  The naan bread was actually fine.  The “curry” did not make one beg for more.  It was a red broth with potatoes and maybe chicken.  No real flavor, but it was warmish so that was....something.  I saw many airplane food dishes half full of the “curry” thrown to the garbage after my meal.  Ah yes, dinner - and a show! ...a re-run of a 2010 MTV’s top 10 Justin Beaver’s favorite music videos.  I shit you not.  There he was, pride of Canada.  It was like the world was slapping me in the face.

Imagine, being in jail in one of the most affluent cities in the world, on the other side of the world from Canada, and being succumbed to not just Justin Beiber, but his shitty 13 year old taste in music!  It was a fate worse than if the security guard from earlier had done a “full” frisk.  And of course one person in the crowd watching was excited not only that I was Canadian, but that Justin Beiber was Canadian too.  Then the conversation shifted to me.  And why I was not a Beiber fan.  How the hell did I end up in a room full of dozens of full grown men, from the other side of the world, who all had a profound respect for the body of work of one young Canadian by the name of Beiber? 

But I digress.
 

Night time fell.  As I mentioned earlier, there was beds for under 100 people.  However there was well over 100 people there.  And extra blankets.  I managed to get a clean-like blanket to put down on the hard floor and was able to curl up near the exit door (and unfortunately right beside the doorless bathroom).

Jenn had re-visited the police station that night and demanded my release.  They agreed to her pleas after several hours of rejecting. I was summoned for release around 1am!  The other inmates near the door cheered for me, and I received a series of high-fives, even from people who did not speak English!   I was ecstatic to be leaving!  No more horrible sleeping on incredibly hard floors, no more incomprehensible meals, no more Beiber. 

The feeling was short lived.

Unfortunately for me, they agreed to my release without telling Jenn, and about an hour after she had left, this was again the middle of the night, about 24 hours after I was first detained in Dubai.  The police only needed my passport, which I did not have, and Jenn was no longer at the police station to give it to them. 

The next morning Jenn returned to the station at 9am (as she had been instructed).  There she was informed that my case had been sent to the prosecutor for review.  He would not be able to complete his review until the bank machine was analyzed by the bank and charges were made official, or dropped. Until his review, there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do.  This could take several  weeks.  In the meantime, I was to remain in jail. 

Jenn was furious (while still trying to act demure and womanly – this time determined to be on her best behaviour) and insisted that she would be waiting right there in the station and continue demanding my release until a resolution was met. The police reiterated that until the prosecutor made his report, there was nothing she, or anyone else could do. 
 
I Hope she brought a toothbrush and a heavy book.

 

 
To be continued...




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