Meet the People of Dubai and Abu Dhabi

“You are an Arab from Pakistan, but you don’t speak Arabic? You carry the Quran, but can’t read it?” The driver, looking embarrassed and slightly annoyed, nodded. The Israeli man turned to us with spit flying and said “so many Arabs carry the Quran around, but they can’t speak or read Arabic. How do they know what it says?”

One of the best things about traveling is meeting people. Usually, you interact with locals and tourists and glean information about a place from a mix of perspectives. In Dubai, you get a mix of perspectives, only not from the locals. With around 3.5 million residents, about 15 percent are Emirati, a citizen of United Arab Emirates, and eighty-five percent are expatriates. Around 70 percent of expatriates are from lower-income countries in Asia and Africa, living in Dubai on work visas.

While I understood that abstractly from reading the internet, I did not realize that the immigration official who stamped our passports would be the first and almost last Emirati that we’d interact with during our eight-day visit. It became real when Cody, seven-year-old Skye and I exited the world’s busiest international airport, and climbed into a cab, ready to begin my bucket-list trip, twice postponed by the COVID-19 pandemic. This is not a blog about vacationing in the glitzy, modern city breaking records left and right for the fun of it. This is about the people who make it all possible. The 70 percent.

I studied basic words in Arabic, the official language, before we left the U.S. and knew that there are different ways to say thank you. I asked the young taxi driver how to say thank you the customary way in Dubai. He told us shukran (pronounced shoo-kran). But it turned out that I didn’t need to know. I asked where he was from, and he replied “I am from Pakistan. I’ve lived in Dubai for two years and I love it, it’s a great city, a lot of fun and very safe. You can see here in the tourist area people are outside all night, nobody has to worry. Nothing bad happens.” We appreciated hearing this as U.S. tourists arriving in the middle of the night in a middle eastern country, out of practice with international travel after the pandemic. He was the first expat we met.

As we passed by the 160-story Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world in 2023 at 2,716.5 feet, he said “roll your window down and take a picture; this is a great spot for the tourists!” Built in 2004, the structure is a spectacularly ostentatious example of modern architecture. I stared in awe, feeling a sense of accomplishment that I got myself into its presence. I was unaware that plans are in motion to construct the Dubai Creek Tower, set to steal its neighbor’s tallest-building title. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy knowing that I’ve been to the 124th floor of the tallest building in the world.

“Welcome to the Manzil Downtown” greeted gracious hotel staff who took our bags and led us to the check-in counter. I said shukran several times, puzzled by their lack of responses. By the next day, I realized that most people don’t react to shukran because they don’t speak Arabic as they are not from UAE. But they do speak English. Feeling fortunate for the billionth time in my life that my native tongue is the world’s go-to language, I said thank you in English for the rest of our visit to ensure everyone understood my gratitude.

After a few days of experiencing the sensory playground of downtown Dubai, we decided to check out the rolling red dunes of the Arabian Desert via camelback. The safari tour driver picked us up and went on to another hotel to retrieve more passengers. We said hello to the couple and settled into a comfortable silence as the aged Chevrolet Suburban raced east away from the glittering, towering skyline and into the less developed, sandy hills between Dubai and Sharjah, another UAE emirate.

“Where are you from?” said a harsh, glutaral voice, startling me out of my daydream. My husband told the male of the couple who joined us, and we learned they were Catholic Arabs from Israel. In Arabic, the Israeli spoke to the driver. We couldn’t understand his reply, and neither could the Israeli, who said with great amusement in English “you are an Arab from Pakistan, but you don’t speak Arabic? You carry the Quran, right? But can’t read it?” The driver, looking embarrassed and slightly annoyed, nodded. The Israeli man turned to us with spit flying and said “so many Arabs carry the Quran around, but they can’t speak or read Arabic. How do they know what it says?” and chuckled to himself. While a valid point, I was grateful to the driver for his tolerance of this man, I may not have been as gracious in his place.

When buildings gave way to red sandy dunes framed by the jagged Hajar Mountains, we reached an area with expansive parking lots filled with all-terrain vehicles, camels, and little souvenir shops and food stands. It was safari time. We rode two gentle camels led by a young man in a bright red hoodie. He spoke minimal English but told us he was from Ethiopia and tried his best to connect with us over the Denver Broncos. I didn’t tell him that we know nothing about the team other than its name and location, choosing to only to show appreciation for his knowledge. He was an enthusiastic photographer with a positive aura. I wish I’d asked how one becomes a camel guide. Did he learn in Ethiopia, where camels are plentiful, and move to Dubai for the job, or did the safari provide training? Regardless, his guidance made for an excellent experience, and he sent us home with our favorite pictures from the whole vacation.

After a few days on European-tourist-filled Palm Jumeirah, one of the artificial islands shaped like a palm tree, and several Pakistani-taxi-driver rides later, we got into a cab bound for Abu Dhabi, about two hours southwest of Dubai. This Pakistani driver spoke excellent English from living in Dubai for 16 years and was an encyclopedia on the area. He described the history and state of the various emirates, more relevant and interesting information than gained from our months of internet research. He described life in his small Pakistani village and how he appreciated the peace and safety of Dubai. He told us about his family, a girl the same age as Skye and a three-year-old boy whom he hadn’t seen in two years. He proudly showed us pictures he kept on the cab’s dashboard. He said to Skye “you are a very lucky girl to be able to come travel on vacation to such a nice country so far from yours. I will take you back to Pakistan with me and teach you Pashtun,” and laughed. Later my husband and I dissected the intention of his statement, but in the moment I asked if his daughter would visit him in Dubai. He replied “oh no, no she will never get to come here” and shook his head, looking forlorn.

We arrived at the Conrad Hotel at Abu Dhabi Etihad Towers, the most lavish hotel we’ve ever stayed in and probably ever will. A small army of hotel staff took our bags, and a strikingly elegant woman named Grace escorted us through the expansive lobby to the check-in desk. Grace apologized for the busyness as there were around 100 people dressed in evening gowns and suits milling about. I exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, I feel quite underdressed right now,” staring at our twice-worn jeans smelly from our camel ride and feeling extremely “American” in our casual garb. Grace calmly replied “Oh no, not at all. We welcome all kinds of people to our hotel. Everyone is welcome here.” Her calm voice put me at ease, though I still felt sloven and wondered what she meant by “all kinds of people” when referring to us. We later learned there was an international diamond convention at the hotel, and we’d stumbled into their afternoon teatime.

Grace transferred us the care of the hotel receptionist, a woman in a black skirt suit with medium-length black hair. She peppered us with questions as if we were the most interesting people she had ever met, the banter putting us at ease in the opulent environment. She asked, “where do you think I’m from?” and without missing a beat, my husband said “Pakistan!” She threw her head back and emitted a deep, throaty laugh and said “I ask all our guests where they think I’m from and I’ve never heard that answer. Most people say China or Korea. But I am from Kazakhstan.” Cody explained that several the taxi drivers asked us to guess where they are from, and they are all from Pakistan. This person could be the only person we ever meet from Kazakhstan. We were honored.

Over the duration of our stay, we befriended Grace, the woman who greeted us the day we arrived. From Rwanda, she described a beautiful country and encouraged us to go one day to see gorillas in the wild. She was obtaining a work visa for Rhode Island, and said she hoped to see us again in the U.S. Later we scoured a map of Africa to find Rwanda, a country almost as tiny in Africa as Rhode Island is in the U.S. and added it to our “places to visit” list. Grace made an impression on us.

Sitting by the pool we heard two girls speaking English. My daughter asked if they wanted to play and the three began a loud game of Marco Polo. Later my daughter said that one of the girls asked where she was from, and girl excitedly replied, “oh wow, I’ve never met a real, live kid from America before, can I touch you?” My daughter mentioned it many times after, not yet understanding the privilege and fame that comes with a U.S. passport. We overheard many kids speaking English with parents dressed in Arab clothing, maybe Emiratis or visitors from other parts of UAE or the middle east. They transitioned between Arabic and English frequently and seamlessly. For the billionth time in my life, I felt embarrassed for being mostly monolingual.

Back in Dubai, we walked through the gold souk in Deira, an area known affectionately as “old Dubai.” My daughter saw a cat crouched by a group of men. They waved us over to pet the cat. One asked where we were from, and to our answer he enthusiastically replied, “we are from Afghanistan. We love Americans! My brother was an interpreter for the Americans and lives in Minneapolis now.” Chances are his brother was evacuated from Afghanistan and lives in the U.S. as a refugee. As my husband and I reflected on the conversation, we both felt uncomfortable to be American in that moment. He spent time in the middle east with the military and saw how disruptive it was. I felt a weird, abstract guilt, like I needed to apologize.

On our last night in the country, we finally met someone born and raised in Dubai. Musician Ibby VK asked dancers to join him on stage during a performance in Al Seef, a water-front entertainment district. My daughter was the only volunteer, and they sang and danced a duet. We stuck around after the performance to say thank you and later found him on Spotify. We didn’t expect that the only Emirati we’d talk to outside the airport would be a musician, but it was fitting for our experience in the country.

Travel changes you in a myriad of ways, possibly the most critical being the empathy you gain from interacting with people from cultures different than yours. While we didn’t meet many people from UAE, we did experience the cultural immersion I hoped for. Meeting people in Dubai and Abu Dhabi on work visas supporting tourism created a bridge between us and people from countries we’ll probably only ever see on a map. As always with travel, we are forever changed, forever grateful.