Dubai on Empty
Content
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
NEWS
Season 6 Game of Thrones
Casting News Brings a
Long-Buried Plot Back from
the Dead
Tonight’s Episode of Game
of Thrones Doubled Down
on the Sexual Assault
Dubai on Empty
Prince Harry Has Finally
Met Princess Charlotte
CULTURE
APRIL 2011
Dubai on Empty
Its skyline erupting from the desert in just two decades, Dubai is a cautionary tale about what money can’t buy: a culture of its own.
After gorging on the Viagra of easy credit, the emirate has the world’s tallest building, the world’s most expensive racetrack, and a
financial crisis to match. From the Western mercenaries and Asian drones who maintain the gaudy show to 100-odd families who
are impervious to any economic reality, A. A. Gill discovers that no one truly belongs in Dubai, where the legacy of oil has made
everything worthless.
B Y A .A . G IL L
PH OTOGR A PH S B Y TOM C RAIG
Locals stand in front of the royal enclosure at the track.
T
he only way to make sense of Dubai is to never forget that it isn’t real. It’s a fable, a fairy tale, like The Arabian Nights. More
correctly, it’s a cautionary tale. Dubai is the story of the three wishes, where, as every kid knows, with the third wish you
demand three more wishes. And as every genie knows, more wishes lead to more greed, more misery, more bad credit, and
much, much, much more bad taste. Dubai is Las Vegas without the showgirls, the gambling, or Elvis. Dubai is a financial
Disneyland without the fun. It’s a holiday resort with the worst climate in the world. It boils. It’s humid. And the constant wind is full
of sand. The first thing you see when you arrive is the airport, with its echoing marble halls. It’s big enough to be the hub of a
continent. Dubai suffers from gigantism—a national inferiority complex that has to make everything bigger and biggest. This includes
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
1/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
their financial crisis.
SUBSCRIBE TO VANITY FAIR MAGAZINE
To read more, subscribe now.
Get immediate access to this month's issue featuring Star Wars. Plus, get a free V.F. tote.
Outside, in the sodden heat, you pass hundreds and hundreds of regimented palm trees and you wonder who waters them and what
with. The skyline, in the dusty haze, looks like the cover of a dystopian sciencefiction novella. Clusters of skyscrapers lurch out at the
gray desert accompanied by their moribund cranes, propped up with scaffolding, swagged in plastic sheeting. Dubai thought it was
going to grow up to be the Arab Singapore—a commercial, banking, and insurance service port on the Gulf with hospitality and
footballers’ timeshares, an oasis of R&R for the less well endowed. But it hasn’t quite worked out. The vertical streets of offices are
empty. A derelict skyscraper looks exactly the same as one that’s teeming with commerce. They huddle around the current tallest
building in the world—a monument to smallnation penis envy. This pylon erected with the Viagra of credit is now a big, naked
exclamation of Dubai’s fiscal embarrassment. It was going to be called Burj Dubai, but as Dubai was unable to make their payments,
they were forced to go to their Gulf neighbor, head towel in hand, to get a loan. So now it’s called Burj Khalifa, after Abu Dhabi’s ruler,
who coughed up $10 billion to its overextended neighbor.
Dubai has been built very fast. The plan was money. The architect was money. The designer was money and the builder was money.
And if you ever wondered what money would look like if it were left to its own devices, it’s Dubai.
My driver gets lost more than once. He’s lived here all his life. He says he always gets lost. The roads keep changing. It’s a confusion of
orange traffic cones and interlocking barriers; access roads peter out into long drops to rubble and dust. Nothing actually goes
anywhere. The wide lanes loop around endlessly, and then there’s no place to go. No plaza or square, no center. Nowhere to hang out,
nowhere to walk. Why would you walk? In this heat? You pull over and throw your keys to a valet, and get indoors as quickly as
possible, generally in one of the countless shopping centers that look like the airports of lesser nations or Egyptian tombs. They echo
with the slow footfalls of the security guards. In the boutiques, the glossy assistants stare at mannequins with a mutual mime of
cashmerefolding despair. Dubai has been mugged by its own greed. Its consumer economy is being maintained by oilrich families to
whom depressions, booms, lottery wins, and recessions mean little. Riches and wealth are relative terms. But not ones we’re related to.
There is an indoor ski mountain, probably the biggest indoor ski mountain in a desert, where the Arab boys queue for suits and boots
and skis. The smarter locals arrive in their own designer aprèsski gear, with fur and moon boots. You walk through the doors and it’s
like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—the land of permanent winter. The fat boys push past carrying their snowboards toward
the Tyrolean chocolate shop and Swiss fir trees and slide down the hill with a practiced arrogance. The girls slither, splaylegged,
hijabs fluttering, in the manufactured snow.
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
2/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
Pre-race at the nearly $3 billion Meydan Racecourse, in Dubai.
N
o one dreamed of this. Twenty years ago, none of this was here. No Narnia. No sevenstar hotels. No tallest prick buildings.
Just a home of pastoralist tented families herding goats, racing camels, shooting one another. And a handful of greasy,
armed empire mechanics in khaki shorts, drilling for oil. In just one life span, Dubai has gone from sitting on a rug to
swiveling on a fake Eames chair 100 stories up. And not a single local has had to lift a finger to make it happen. That’s not
quite fair—of course they’ve lifted a finger; to call the waiter, berate the busboy. The money seeped out of the ground and they spent it.
Pretty much all of it. You look at this place and you realize not a single thing is indigenous, not one of this culture’s goods and chattels
originated here. Even the goats have gone. This was a civilization that was bought wholesale. The Gulf is the proof of Carnegie’s
warning about wealth: “There is no class so pitiably wretched as that which possesses money and nothing else.” Emiratis are born
retired. They waft through this city in their white dishdashas and headscarves and their obsessively tapered humorless faces. They’re
out of place in their own country. They have imported and built a city, a fortress of extravagance, that excludes themselves. They have
become duplicitous, schizophrenic. They don’t allow their own national dress in the clubs and bars that serve alcohol, the restaurants
with the hungry girls sipping champagne. So they slip into Western clothes to go out.
The Gulf Arabs have become the minority in this country they wished out of the desert. They are now less than 20 percent of the total
population. Among the other 80plus percent are the white mercenary workers who come here for taxfree salaries to do managerial
and entrepreneurial jobs, parasites and sycophants for cash. For them money is a driving principle and validation. They came to be
young, single, greedy, and insincere. None of them are very clever. So they live lives that revolve around drink and porn sex and pool
parties and barbecues with a lot of hysterical laughing and theme nights, karaoke, and slobbery, regretful coupling. In fact, as in all
cases of embarrassing arrested development, these expats on the shortterm make don’t expect to put down roots here, have children
here, or grow old here. Everyone’s on a visa dependent on a job.
Then there is a third category of people: the drones. The workers. The Asians: Indians, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, and Filipinos. Early in
the morning, before the white mercenaries have negotiated their hangovers, long before the Emiratis have shouted at the maid, buses
full of hardhatted Asians pull into building sites. They have the tough, downtrodden look of Communist posters from the 30s—they
are both the slaves of capital and the heroes of labor. Asians man the hotels; they run the civil service and the utilities and commercial
businesses; they are the clerks and the secretaries, the lawyers, the doctors, the accountants; there isn’t a single facet of this state that
would function if they didn’t maintain it. No one with an Emirati passport could change a fuse. Yet, the workers, who make up roughly
71 percent of the population, have precious few rights here. They can’t become citizens, though some are the third generation of their
family to be born here. They can be deported at any time. They have no redress. Many of the Asian laborers are owed back pay they
aren’t likely to get. There are reams of anecdotal stories about the abuse of guest workers. I’m told about the Pakistani shop assistant
who, picking up an Arab woman’s shopping bags, accidentally passed gas, got arrested, and was jailed.
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
3/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
Out-of-towners getting ready for the Dubai World Cup.
T
he Arabs live in their own ghettos, large, dull containments of big houses that are half garage behind security walls, weighed
down with satellite dishes. We drive by an empty lot, and my driver tells me that this was the site of the house of the second
son of a highranking official. Daddy had it bulldozed when his boy was caught having a Westernstyle richbrats’ party.
There is a growing, unspoken problem with the indigenous youth here. Fat, and spoiled beyond reason, they are titanically
rude. They have reportedly taken to forming slovenly gangs that have been responsible for random attacks on foreign workers and
women simply for the computergame fun of it. This is a generation of kids who expect to never seriously work—but do expect secure
jobs. An Indian manager who runs hotels in Dubai told me that everybody dreads the call from some royal Arab telling them to expect
a nephew who will be coming to work. The boy will demand an office, a secretary, a car, wages, deference, and an empty schedule. It’s
a sort of protection shakedown that you pay to do business here.
The Al Maktoums are secretive and autocratic, as most Arab despots are. The emir is always prime minister. Abu Dhabi’s ruler is
always president. The royal family’s public exposure is universally adoring, supine, sycophantic, and breathlessly bland. There are
rumors, always rumors, about disappeared princesses, abducted children, madness, and suicide. The royal family owes its power to an
intricate web of family alliance, patronage, and operatic charity. It is sincerely respected.
A reveler at the Dubai World Cup, the most lavish horse race in the world. The winner walks away with a $10 million prize.
T
he Al Maktoums have taken to horse racing. They practically own the British and Irish bloodstock business. It’s a clever and
selfserving hobby. Horses are one of the very few upperclass American and European enthusiasms that are shared with
Arabs. All racehorses have a little Arab in them. So the Al Maktoums can mix in the West without that stigma that the
Saudis suffer from back home—the public decorum with a private, Western decadence. The simple business of betting is of
course ignored with a disdainfully turned shoulder. Since Dubai’s constructionbased economy stumbled, the prince has obliviously
opened a massive and spectacularly hideous hippodrome, the Meydan Racecourse. The biggest racetrack in the world, it cost almost
$3 billion to build. It’s home to the Dubai World Cup, the most expensive horse race in the world, naturally. This place couldn’t have
the secondmost expensive horse race in the world. The winner pockets $10 million.
The track sits in a wasteland surrounded by the exhausted squirm of motorways. I walk around it and look not at the galloping horses
and their bright jockeys but back up at the stands. Here in one long panorama is the Dantean vision of modern Dubai—the Arabs
huddled in a glass dome, looking like creatures from a Star Trek episode in their sepulchral windingsheet dishdashas. Next to them
are the stands for Westerners, mostly British, loud and drunk, dressed in their tarty party gear. The girls, raucous and provocative,
have fat thighs that wobble in tiny frocks. Cantilevered bosoms lurch. The boys, spiky and gelled, glassyeyed and leering. In the last
enclosure, the Asians, packed in with families and picnics, excited to be out of the Portakabin dormitories and the boredom and the
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
4/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
homesickness of Internet cafés. In front of them all are the ranks of wiredup security guards, making sure the layers of this mutually
dismissive society don’t pollute each other. After the horses have run, Elton John will perform.
Dubai is the parable of what money makes when it has no purpose but its own multiplication and grandeur. When the culture that
holds it is too frail to contain it. Dubai is a place that doesn’t just know the price of everything and the value of nothing but makes
everything worthless. The answer to everything in Dubai is money. In the darkness of the hot night, the motorways roar with Ferraris
and Porsches and Lamborghinis; the fat boys are befuddled and stupefied by sports cars they race around on nowhere roads, going
nowhere. Taxi drivers of their ambitionless, allconsuming entitlement. Shortchanged by being given everything. Cursed with money.
Inside Ski Dubai, an indoor ski resort in the middle of the desert.
S HA RE
For more highprofile interviews, stunning photography, and thoughtprovoking features, subscribe now to Vanity
Fair magazine.
Get immediate access to this month's issue and a free V.F. tote.
AROUND THE WEB
POWERED BY ZERGNET
11 Actors Everyone Hates Working With
5 Movies You Should Never See With
Your Parents
6 Movie Scenes Filmed With Actually
Drunk Actors
10 Greatest Banned Movie Posters Of
All-Time
RECOMMENDED
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
5/8
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
NEWS
Season 6 Game of Thrones
Casting News Brings a
Long-Buried Plot Back from
the Dead
Tonight’s Episode of Game
of Thrones Doubled Down
on the Sexual Assault
Dubai on Empty
Prince Harry Has Finally
Met Princess Charlotte
CULTURE
APRIL 2011
Dubai on Empty
Its skyline erupting from the desert in just two decades, Dubai is a cautionary tale about what money can’t buy: a culture of its own.
After gorging on the Viagra of easy credit, the emirate has the world’s tallest building, the world’s most expensive racetrack, and a
financial crisis to match. From the Western mercenaries and Asian drones who maintain the gaudy show to 100-odd families who
are impervious to any economic reality, A. A. Gill discovers that no one truly belongs in Dubai, where the legacy of oil has made
everything worthless.
B Y A .A . G IL L
PH OTOGR A PH S B Y TOM C RAIG
Locals stand in front of the royal enclosure at the track.
T
he only way to make sense of Dubai is to never forget that it isn’t real. It’s a fable, a fairy tale, like The Arabian Nights. More
correctly, it’s a cautionary tale. Dubai is the story of the three wishes, where, as every kid knows, with the third wish you
demand three more wishes. And as every genie knows, more wishes lead to more greed, more misery, more bad credit, and
much, much, much more bad taste. Dubai is Las Vegas without the showgirls, the gambling, or Elvis. Dubai is a financial
Disneyland without the fun. It’s a holiday resort with the worst climate in the world. It boils. It’s humid. And the constant wind is full
of sand. The first thing you see when you arrive is the airport, with its echoing marble halls. It’s big enough to be the hub of a
continent. Dubai suffers from gigantism—a national inferiority complex that has to make everything bigger and biggest. This includes
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
1/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
their financial crisis.
SUBSCRIBE TO VANITY FAIR MAGAZINE
To read more, subscribe now.
Get immediate access to this month's issue featuring Star Wars. Plus, get a free V.F. tote.
Outside, in the sodden heat, you pass hundreds and hundreds of regimented palm trees and you wonder who waters them and what
with. The skyline, in the dusty haze, looks like the cover of a dystopian sciencefiction novella. Clusters of skyscrapers lurch out at the
gray desert accompanied by their moribund cranes, propped up with scaffolding, swagged in plastic sheeting. Dubai thought it was
going to grow up to be the Arab Singapore—a commercial, banking, and insurance service port on the Gulf with hospitality and
footballers’ timeshares, an oasis of R&R for the less well endowed. But it hasn’t quite worked out. The vertical streets of offices are
empty. A derelict skyscraper looks exactly the same as one that’s teeming with commerce. They huddle around the current tallest
building in the world—a monument to smallnation penis envy. This pylon erected with the Viagra of credit is now a big, naked
exclamation of Dubai’s fiscal embarrassment. It was going to be called Burj Dubai, but as Dubai was unable to make their payments,
they were forced to go to their Gulf neighbor, head towel in hand, to get a loan. So now it’s called Burj Khalifa, after Abu Dhabi’s ruler,
who coughed up $10 billion to its overextended neighbor.
Dubai has been built very fast. The plan was money. The architect was money. The designer was money and the builder was money.
And if you ever wondered what money would look like if it were left to its own devices, it’s Dubai.
My driver gets lost more than once. He’s lived here all his life. He says he always gets lost. The roads keep changing. It’s a confusion of
orange traffic cones and interlocking barriers; access roads peter out into long drops to rubble and dust. Nothing actually goes
anywhere. The wide lanes loop around endlessly, and then there’s no place to go. No plaza or square, no center. Nowhere to hang out,
nowhere to walk. Why would you walk? In this heat? You pull over and throw your keys to a valet, and get indoors as quickly as
possible, generally in one of the countless shopping centers that look like the airports of lesser nations or Egyptian tombs. They echo
with the slow footfalls of the security guards. In the boutiques, the glossy assistants stare at mannequins with a mutual mime of
cashmerefolding despair. Dubai has been mugged by its own greed. Its consumer economy is being maintained by oilrich families to
whom depressions, booms, lottery wins, and recessions mean little. Riches and wealth are relative terms. But not ones we’re related to.
There is an indoor ski mountain, probably the biggest indoor ski mountain in a desert, where the Arab boys queue for suits and boots
and skis. The smarter locals arrive in their own designer aprèsski gear, with fur and moon boots. You walk through the doors and it’s
like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—the land of permanent winter. The fat boys push past carrying their snowboards toward
the Tyrolean chocolate shop and Swiss fir trees and slide down the hill with a practiced arrogance. The girls slither, splaylegged,
hijabs fluttering, in the manufactured snow.
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
2/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
Pre-race at the nearly $3 billion Meydan Racecourse, in Dubai.
N
o one dreamed of this. Twenty years ago, none of this was here. No Narnia. No sevenstar hotels. No tallest prick buildings.
Just a home of pastoralist tented families herding goats, racing camels, shooting one another. And a handful of greasy,
armed empire mechanics in khaki shorts, drilling for oil. In just one life span, Dubai has gone from sitting on a rug to
swiveling on a fake Eames chair 100 stories up. And not a single local has had to lift a finger to make it happen. That’s not
quite fair—of course they’ve lifted a finger; to call the waiter, berate the busboy. The money seeped out of the ground and they spent it.
Pretty much all of it. You look at this place and you realize not a single thing is indigenous, not one of this culture’s goods and chattels
originated here. Even the goats have gone. This was a civilization that was bought wholesale. The Gulf is the proof of Carnegie’s
warning about wealth: “There is no class so pitiably wretched as that which possesses money and nothing else.” Emiratis are born
retired. They waft through this city in their white dishdashas and headscarves and their obsessively tapered humorless faces. They’re
out of place in their own country. They have imported and built a city, a fortress of extravagance, that excludes themselves. They have
become duplicitous, schizophrenic. They don’t allow their own national dress in the clubs and bars that serve alcohol, the restaurants
with the hungry girls sipping champagne. So they slip into Western clothes to go out.
The Gulf Arabs have become the minority in this country they wished out of the desert. They are now less than 20 percent of the total
population. Among the other 80plus percent are the white mercenary workers who come here for taxfree salaries to do managerial
and entrepreneurial jobs, parasites and sycophants for cash. For them money is a driving principle and validation. They came to be
young, single, greedy, and insincere. None of them are very clever. So they live lives that revolve around drink and porn sex and pool
parties and barbecues with a lot of hysterical laughing and theme nights, karaoke, and slobbery, regretful coupling. In fact, as in all
cases of embarrassing arrested development, these expats on the shortterm make don’t expect to put down roots here, have children
here, or grow old here. Everyone’s on a visa dependent on a job.
Then there is a third category of people: the drones. The workers. The Asians: Indians, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, and Filipinos. Early in
the morning, before the white mercenaries have negotiated their hangovers, long before the Emiratis have shouted at the maid, buses
full of hardhatted Asians pull into building sites. They have the tough, downtrodden look of Communist posters from the 30s—they
are both the slaves of capital and the heroes of labor. Asians man the hotels; they run the civil service and the utilities and commercial
businesses; they are the clerks and the secretaries, the lawyers, the doctors, the accountants; there isn’t a single facet of this state that
would function if they didn’t maintain it. No one with an Emirati passport could change a fuse. Yet, the workers, who make up roughly
71 percent of the population, have precious few rights here. They can’t become citizens, though some are the third generation of their
family to be born here. They can be deported at any time. They have no redress. Many of the Asian laborers are owed back pay they
aren’t likely to get. There are reams of anecdotal stories about the abuse of guest workers. I’m told about the Pakistani shop assistant
who, picking up an Arab woman’s shopping bags, accidentally passed gas, got arrested, and was jailed.
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
3/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
Out-of-towners getting ready for the Dubai World Cup.
T
he Arabs live in their own ghettos, large, dull containments of big houses that are half garage behind security walls, weighed
down with satellite dishes. We drive by an empty lot, and my driver tells me that this was the site of the house of the second
son of a highranking official. Daddy had it bulldozed when his boy was caught having a Westernstyle richbrats’ party.
There is a growing, unspoken problem with the indigenous youth here. Fat, and spoiled beyond reason, they are titanically
rude. They have reportedly taken to forming slovenly gangs that have been responsible for random attacks on foreign workers and
women simply for the computergame fun of it. This is a generation of kids who expect to never seriously work—but do expect secure
jobs. An Indian manager who runs hotels in Dubai told me that everybody dreads the call from some royal Arab telling them to expect
a nephew who will be coming to work. The boy will demand an office, a secretary, a car, wages, deference, and an empty schedule. It’s
a sort of protection shakedown that you pay to do business here.
The Al Maktoums are secretive and autocratic, as most Arab despots are. The emir is always prime minister. Abu Dhabi’s ruler is
always president. The royal family’s public exposure is universally adoring, supine, sycophantic, and breathlessly bland. There are
rumors, always rumors, about disappeared princesses, abducted children, madness, and suicide. The royal family owes its power to an
intricate web of family alliance, patronage, and operatic charity. It is sincerely respected.
A reveler at the Dubai World Cup, the most lavish horse race in the world. The winner walks away with a $10 million prize.
T
he Al Maktoums have taken to horse racing. They practically own the British and Irish bloodstock business. It’s a clever and
selfserving hobby. Horses are one of the very few upperclass American and European enthusiasms that are shared with
Arabs. All racehorses have a little Arab in them. So the Al Maktoums can mix in the West without that stigma that the
Saudis suffer from back home—the public decorum with a private, Western decadence. The simple business of betting is of
course ignored with a disdainfully turned shoulder. Since Dubai’s constructionbased economy stumbled, the prince has obliviously
opened a massive and spectacularly hideous hippodrome, the Meydan Racecourse. The biggest racetrack in the world, it cost almost
$3 billion to build. It’s home to the Dubai World Cup, the most expensive horse race in the world, naturally. This place couldn’t have
the secondmost expensive horse race in the world. The winner pockets $10 million.
The track sits in a wasteland surrounded by the exhausted squirm of motorways. I walk around it and look not at the galloping horses
and their bright jockeys but back up at the stands. Here in one long panorama is the Dantean vision of modern Dubai—the Arabs
huddled in a glass dome, looking like creatures from a Star Trek episode in their sepulchral windingsheet dishdashas. Next to them
are the stands for Westerners, mostly British, loud and drunk, dressed in their tarty party gear. The girls, raucous and provocative,
have fat thighs that wobble in tiny frocks. Cantilevered bosoms lurch. The boys, spiky and gelled, glassyeyed and leering. In the last
enclosure, the Asians, packed in with families and picnics, excited to be out of the Portakabin dormitories and the boredom and the
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
4/8
5/27/2015
Dubai on Empty | Vanity Fair
homesickness of Internet cafés. In front of them all are the ranks of wiredup security guards, making sure the layers of this mutually
dismissive society don’t pollute each other. After the horses have run, Elton John will perform.
Dubai is the parable of what money makes when it has no purpose but its own multiplication and grandeur. When the culture that
holds it is too frail to contain it. Dubai is a place that doesn’t just know the price of everything and the value of nothing but makes
everything worthless. The answer to everything in Dubai is money. In the darkness of the hot night, the motorways roar with Ferraris
and Porsches and Lamborghinis; the fat boys are befuddled and stupefied by sports cars they race around on nowhere roads, going
nowhere. Taxi drivers of their ambitionless, allconsuming entitlement. Shortchanged by being given everything. Cursed with money.
Inside Ski Dubai, an indoor ski resort in the middle of the desert.
S HA RE
For more highprofile interviews, stunning photography, and thoughtprovoking features, subscribe now to Vanity
Fair magazine.
Get immediate access to this month's issue and a free V.F. tote.
AROUND THE WEB
POWERED BY ZERGNET
11 Actors Everyone Hates Working With
5 Movies You Should Never See With
Your Parents
6 Movie Scenes Filmed With Actually
Drunk Actors
10 Greatest Banned Movie Posters Of
All-Time
RECOMMENDED
http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2011/04/dubai201104
5/8
