The Gulf

He stepped out of the airport terminal and into the stifling heat. For someone unprepared for it, it was as jarring as a street mugging. He’d worked there before for several years but never physically adapted to it. His Scotch-Irish constitution was far better suited to the cool grey skies of the far Northern Hemisphere, and within minutes he was soaked in sweat and disgusted at walking around in a puddle of his own filth. Yellow taxis everywhere driven by representatives of the U.N. General Assembly. God, was there any nationality NOT represented? Pakistanis, Indians, Palestinians, Filipinos — even an Albanian and Nigerian in the mix. Despite the glitz and glitter of the desert city, when pressed, no one would really tell you they lived here because they preferred to. There was money to be made and the capitalistic leviathan needed bodies — maids, street cleaners, masons, waiters, managers, directors, and CEOs and COOs. The place was utterly devoid of authenticity and culture. It was like living in an amusement park. There were plenty of distractions, of course, to keep employed expatriates numb to the fact that they lived in the middle of nowhere. The locals were proud of the metropolis they had built in less than half a century, a phenomenon as improbable as the arid landscape suddenly blooming into a second Eden. But it revolted him. The greed, the artificiality, the hypocrisy, the exploitation, the self-congratulatory hubris. He came when he had to and left not a minute later than he could.