4
A Sheikh, in his office alongside the Dubai creek, gazed at a variety of idling boats rocking gently. A few dozen local Arabs sat about deferentially, awaiting his attention. Something on the water aroused his curiosity, and he rose to peer out. The locals stood, and only seated themselves when the Sheikh had once again sat down.
The Sheikh was having a miserable time conjuring up ways and means of making money. Sure, he was a billionaire, but the extraordinary wealth of neighbouring Abu Dhabi sickened him to the marrow of his bones. As cities go, Dubai had already become the choice destination of foreigners settling in the region, and was becoming a rather important tourism stop – but where was the money in that, compared to Abu Dhabi’s oil wealth? Now, his construction projects lacked finance. It was already 1999, and how the hell was he to beat the system and make some real money?
He looked up from his reverie. “Abdul, how is the taxi business?” he asked. That’s what he had been reduced to, he brooded, having altogether forgotten where he came from.
“Master, it is doing well,” said Abdul, rising to speak, bowing profusely. “We have successfully eliminated private taxis, and created total monopoly. New meters have been ordered, master, and, as commuters now have no option, we can double taxi fares next month.”
“Good, good,” said the Sheikh. “Hareb, tell me about the parking meter business.”
Abdul sat and Hareb rose. Bending and bowing, he answered. “Lord, blessed of the earth, we are installing another thousand meters in residential areas. We have noted that residential areas create far more opportunities to impose fines, as people seem to be more forgetful when at home, perhaps because of greater diversions. Plus, master, we have added another two hundred parking inspectors, with instructions to each to issue at least fifty fines daily, and if innocents have to be targeted, so be it. Income is expected to quadruple next month on.”
“Good, good,” said the Sheikh. His depression intensified. How the devil would he ever get ahead with these businesses as his prime money earners? “Duty free?” he asked, without looking up. The duty free official reported that things were good. Good, thought the Sheikh morosely, motioning the man to sit down. What good was a business with annual turnover of a mere sixty million dollars? How much could he earn from that?
“When are the radar cameras arriving?” he asked Jabber, the police chief. They had arrived and were being installed. “Turn them on simultaneously, after reducing speed limits on major roads,” he ordered. “That way, we will be able to surprise motorists and collect a meaningful amount at first, before they become aware.”
“Hotels and bars?” he asked. The relevant official rose, made obeisance, paid tribute and answered. They were now enjoying almost one hundred percent occupancy and three times the previous liquor consumption, and he put it down to the wisdom of the Sheikh’s newly implemented stance on prostitution. A couple of years back, the Sheikh had contracted a stupid notion that Dubai would be aimed at families, and that his goal would be to get family tourism going, in course of which daft notion he had instructed that single women be denied visas, and when that did not hinder them coming in through other emirates, had followed up on his dim-witted notion by enforcing a no-stay policy at hotels and serviced apartments, which had moved practically all his tourism business out to neighbouring cities and almost collapsed his economy. After that close shave, the policy had been reversed to be entirely prostitute orientated, which had led to the current continuous boom in occupancy and spend. They had, after careful study of the demographics, set the minimum figure at two prostitutes per hotel bed, figuring oversupply better than shortfall, as obtaining accurate figures on resident whoremongers had proven an insurmountable challenge, and this kept Dubai’s airport, taxis, hotels and bars busy. Good, good.
“Bulha,” said the Sheikh. Bulha, the dreaded chief public prosecutor, master of implementation of injustice, wearing his white beard in a most fashionable cut, rose and bowed humbly, cocking his head to one side, like an expectant and obedient dog. “Instruct judges to double fines.”
When it was clear the Sheikh was not about to add anything to that terse command, Bulha spoke. “Lord and king, rates are not fixed. Should I issue a rate list that judges must implement?”
“You are a fool, Bulha,” said the Sheikh irritably. “I honestly do not know why I keep you in such an important position. You do whatever you want and fix it however you wish, but after three months, if I find I am not getting double, I will pluck your beard out hair by hair. Cease to disturb me.”
“I praise master and am ashamed of my foolishness. I shall strive with all my might to do my duty to my lord.” The man made further obeisance and sat down.
The Sheikh pondered morosely. There really was no way these activities would lead to wealth matching Abu Dhabi. A slow despair began to consume him. Why could not the morons sitting in his office come up with schemes to multiply wealth? A billion dollars here, another billion there, all erratic, made no headway in the quest for advancement. He slumped in his seat.
Sudden commotion, in an outer room, caused him to raise his head, to see a local, they call them watani now, being restrained by his bodyguards. The struggling man had begun screaming most theatrically, “Hail to my master, hail to my lord, hail to the chosen of God, hail to the most merciful, let me into his exalted presence to undo the injustice of the court. Let me go. I wish to be with the beloved of God.” And so on.
The watani lost the struggle, and was being manhandled away when the Sheikh moved a finger. His head bodyguard, ever watchful, spoke a word of command, and the wretch was released, rushing forward to fall at the Sheikh’s bare feet to kiss his toes. He moaned and worshipped the Sheikh most lavishly. He was a middle-aged man, perhaps forty-five, and the Sheikh did not recognise him. “Who are you and what do you want?”
The supplicant was the only son of a mid-rank watani who had passed away three months ago, his sole claim to fame being his sponsorship of the famous Indian businessman, Bachcharia – exclusive agent of Japan’s number one consumer electronics manufacturer. A leader in all its fields, no electronics retailer could afford to run an outlet without a prominent display of Bachcharia’s products. In the twenty-odd years that Bachcharia had been exclusive agent, he had become a dollar billionaire. His businesses now roared along.
In the UAE, two outrageous laws apply to all businesses conducted by expatriates.
The first is an agency law covering branded items – cigarettes, toilet paper, electronics, appliances, medicine, baby food, toys, foodstuff, clothing, cars, aeroplanes, military hardware...
This law basically states that when an international manufacturer appoints a watani’s firm as exclusive agent for its products, the agent may register exclusivity of his agency with the UAE government. That done, then no matter how poorly an agent operates an agency, no matter how essential the goods, no matter what length of time passes, and no matter if an agent fails a manufacturer in every imaginable way, including mishandling the product or product range, destroying its inherent reputation, and never ever purchasing any goods at all, no matter; an agent remains the exclusive agent of the manufacturer, with no right conferred upon the manufacturer to change his agent - and illegal for non-agents to import the manufacturer’s products.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
This absolute monopoly, similar laws being in place throughout Gulf Arab countries, has allowed locals to get away with murder – high prices, market manipulating cartels, shoddy service, and distribution of fakes of branded products they represent and are obliged to protect – and made them wealthy beyond belief.
The second is the sponsor requirement, which states, in essence, that business can be conducted in the country’s markets by watanis only. Every expatriate businessman must place his business wholly in the name of a watani, his sponsor, and pay handsomely for the service. Countless locals’ only business is sponsorship.
There is huge mischief in this, with local sponsors frequently making plays to steal businesses away from expatriate owners. Incredible secret paperwork is required to safeguard real business owners - as sponsors officially own everything, including sponsored companies’ bank accounts! Sponsor theft of money in bank accounts is the commonest misdeed, and businessmen watch those accounts very closely, transferring cash frequently to personal accounts for safety.
As official work is impossible without sponsors’ signatures, they often become demanding pests, and businessmen have no option but surrender – extra money for any service.
In both agency and sponsorship runs a common theme very much in line with Gulf Arab tradition – holding hostage!
Upon his father’s death, as sole inheritor, the man had attempted to claim Bachcharia’s company for himself, but, as Bachcharia was careful of his paperwork, he had failed. “Now, lord and master, the court has refused to give me my minimum rights and hand over the exclusive agency,” he whined. The agency itself was the business, and if the man acquired it, he could quite easily replace Bachcharia’s company with his own. “I am sure Bachcharia had bought the judge, lord. That is why I have come to master – for justice.”
The Sheikh gazed into the distance, petitioner at his feet. He knew Bachcharia, an early expatriate pillar of Dubai, well enough. “When do you appeal the judgement?”
“Oh, master, lord most merciful, most just, Bachcharia is the devil himself. I have already appealed, but the judges were again purchased, and threw out my appeal.”
“Why did you not come earlier?”
“Master, I was so confident of justice in your kingdom, you who are father to us, I could not bring myself to disturb you with my tiny problem. Who could foresee that truth and justice would be denied by master’s courts? Two to three hundred million US dollars, that’s what Bachcharia makes annually. I warned the judges I would complain to master, but they merely laughed.”
“Did you not succeed in appropriating anything at all from Bachcharia?”
“Lord, he’s Sindhi, and you know how difficult it is to take anything away from them, but I was patient, master, in my quest for justice. The court had frozen Bachcharia’s bank accounts until it was satisfied regarding succession to sponsorship. It was not easy, master, and I lurked at the courts all day throughout the three months, along with other watanis in similar straits, and when finally the court gave judgement confirming me as sponsor, I raced to withdraw whatever I could lay my hands upon.”
“And how much was that?”
“Master, it takes so much time to get money from banks, so inefficient, and though I sped about Bank Street as fast as my legs would carry me, that low person, Bachcharia, got wind of my mission, and I succeeded in wiping out only three accounts before he withdrew his money from the others.”
“How much?”
“I took about two million dollars through the grace of my lord and master.”
“So little?”
“I took the house too, master, which Bachcharia had constructed on my father’s land, and was obliged by master’s laws to keep in his name, God be praised.”
“So you’ve done quite well, eh? I know the house; it is very big and well located.”
“Master, I crave honesty and justice. Master knows that Bachcharia makes almost three hundred million dollars per year.”
The Sheikh brightened a bit. “Bulha, are you aware of this case?”
The chief prosecutor rose. “Indeed, master, when he began threatening judges, implying corruption, the matter was reported to me, and I checked the documentation carefully. The court is right; his claim lacks merit, the paperwork is too tight to manipulate, master.”
“Three hundred million dollars?” The Sheikh pondered. “Bulha, reopen the case; say it’s being done under some special dispensation, or something like that, you figure it out. Insist that correct interpretation of the law means that upon a sponsor’s death exclusivity dies with him. You know Bachcharia’s business will collapse without the main Japanese agency. He’ll never allow that to happen. At first he will fight hard, and I am sure he’ll come to see me, but when we keep the pressure up, and it looks to him that he is losing his agency, he’ll come round to the new reality and be ready to do a deal. The Economic Department must not allow him to register a new company with a new sponsor. The Japanese will support him, and we must not let him escape our trap.”
The Sheikh smiled broadly. “Bulha, here is an opportunity to get hold of a prize business. Of course, we cannot take it altogether away from Bachcharia, as he is a very rich and very big businessman, always in the news here and in India. Kicking him out will be bad for image, though God knows I am sorely tempted. After letting him sweat, tell him he can form an LLC company with his old sponsor’s son as partner. Bachcharia is to have forty-nine percent share. But no secret paperwork, and from now on he must pay fifty-one percent of profits to his local partner.”
“Lord, master, king, oh, master’s wisdom, generosity and justice amazes the world, none is like master, a hundred million dollars, maybe two hundred million, maybe more, my father, most bountiful, hail to the Sheikh, most exalted, one hundred million dollars minimum…” The man at his feet was exclaiming and pouring out this kind of nonsense, when the Sheikh interrupted him.
“One hundred million dollars, yes. You may keep sponsorship fees. I am sure Bachcharia will be fair and pay you as he paid your father, maybe better. Whatever additional charges you collect by tormenting him throughout the year, you may also pocket, and from the fifty-one percent share of annual profit you will retain half a million dollars, as a gift from master, and transfer the balance to my account.”
The joy evaporated from the man’s face. “Only half a million dollars?” he blurted, most unwisely, stupidity and annoyance writ large on his face. “But the company is mine.”
Quick as a flash, the Sheikh leaned forward and slapped him. “Only? You dare say only to master’s generosity? The company is yours? Such a noise has come from your mouth?” He flicked the man’s headgear off, grabbed him by the hair, and began slapping his face.
The man’s blurred thought processes leading to his reckless outburst had vanished at the first slap, and he knew the mortal danger he was in. “Lord, master, forgive me, king, father…”
“Silence,” commanded the Sheikh, his face twisted in rage. He gestured at his main bodyguard, hovering near, and made a V sign with his forefinger and middle finger. A gasp of anticipatory pleasure rose from the watchers.
The Sheikh looked at the people around. “Mine, he says. I give life, and he says mine?” He let his bodyguards relieve him of the offender. “You own nothing, and now Bachcharia’s company is gone from you. I will have someone else in your place, someone who shows gratitude at master’s mercy, kindness and justice.”
A bodyguard lifted the squealing man’s dishdash and held him in a full nelson. As is common with watanis, he wore no underpants. “You have great balls, huh, to challenge master? Let me see how big.” Another two bodyguards held the offender’s legs apart, and the Sheikh kicked his unprotected, dangling genitals. He shrieked and fainted, to a murmur of pleasure and approval from the spectators.
Master paced about, muttering, until delinquent regained consciousness. The Sheikh pronounced judgement. “Your offence, ingratitude; your destination, jail. You will be imprisoned, awaiting my mercy, so that you never again deny the lordship of master. Take him away. Bulha, make sure you create papers in court, sentencing him on appropriate charges, oh yes, attempting to corrupt, else Amnesty International will publish its usual lies, claiming we jail people without trial.”
The Sheikh settled back in his seat. The day had proven not that bad, after all.
“Hamza,” said he, and a fat fellow wheezed up, “update me on how you’ve been keeping yourself busy.”
“Lord and master,” said the man, “where should I commence? Fake branding, copyright piracy, bookmaking, counterfeit currency, narcotics…”
