Friday night at the mall (of the Emirates)

I enter through an elegant hotel lobby, and am immediately confronted with children sledding through snow, through the glass wall to my right at snow school in ski Dubai. The kids are in rented snowsuits, and the veiled and headressed parents take pictures. Everyone seems to be enjoying the artificial cold, and the place looks like a commercial for itself.



We can control the weather, said capitalism. And it did, for a 70 deirham admission fee.

I immediately seek out the food court. Starbucks guards the entrance, with white robed and headressesd men ("wrah-men") drinking lattes and working on laptops.

Within minutes, I am sitting in the food court, eating turkish fast food from pasha, the only middle eastern-themed fast food I can find that will accept a credit card. To my left, a man gingerly handles a leg from kfc, and in front of me tourists masticate Mcdonalds hamburgers, burger king fries, pizza hut mozzarella rings, etc. I opt for a spinach and feta pita/pizza, and beef sausages with fries. To my right, there is a merry-go-round with bizarre bug-eyed neon seats and an escalator to magic planet, a children's fun-zone.

A marching band saunters by, white men in red shirts and black pants playing mack the knife. No one seems to care.

I notice that many of the wrah-men carry their giant cell phones in hand, and wonder whether the robes have pockets. They are often tall and move in groups. It's an outfit that is meant to be take seriously- the security and customs man at the airport and overseers at the nicer hotels all wear them. Some wear red checked headdresses, the quality of which must signify socioeconomic or religious/familial status. I see one robed man wearing a California baseball hat.

For dessert, I go to Costa, a hip Italian coffee shop (presumably a chain) with a direct view of skidubai. Waiting for my cappuccino and fudge cake, I peer down at the cold customers, watch the skiers mount the lift, and see brothers pulling each other around on red plastic sleds. Around me, twenty-somethings smoke cigarettes, text message friends, and hang out.

The cappuccino is enormous, and terrific. As I eat, I wonder what the Rwandans would think of all this. As I get up to leave, the call to the evening prayer begins on the loudspeaker, slow, wailing, full of traditional emotion.

I am clearly a long way from east Africa.