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 sense’s 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”“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?”
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.
Wow...Need to see part 3!
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