When I first glimpsed the towering Burj Khalifa, my nonplussed reaction fell short of my taxi driver’s expectations. In late 2012, I was speeding through downtown Dubai, my oversized backpack on my lap, taking in the surreal, futuristic cityscape that felt more like a sci-fi film than reality.

Back then, Dubai was dusting itself off after the financial crisis, its real estate and tourism slowly regaining momentum. In hindsight, it was an oddly in-between era: the city was rapidly sprouting gleaming towers, but the influencer wave had yet to arrive. There were no glowing selfie rings or Ozempic girlies in Lululemon leggings, just shining real estate rising from the desert.

Dubai was the unlikely launchpad of my shoestring backpacking adventure through southeast Asia, Australia and New Zealand until my savings ran dry.

Kicking off my travels in a billionaire’s playground now seems absurd for a twenty-something with a bargain-bin Osprey bag, but the relentlessly cheerful travel agent insisted that flying Emirates through Dubai was the thriftiest option. He gave the big sell and promised me a “desert adventure”.

I did next to no research and brushed off my family’s dramatic warnings. They were convinced my “sass” would land me in trouble in this famously strict city.

Perhaps I should have taken heed. In 2012, Dubai was under strict conservative legal and social regulations, with a particular tightening of control over online behaviour, political speech and public decency.

Public displays of affection were strictly prohibited and punishable by fines or deportation. Visitors and residents were expected to dress modestly in public, not to be drunk, and to refrain from swearing. Oh s*** that’s wine o’clock out the window then.

After choosing the cheapest digs we could find, our cab whisked us away from the glittering downtown to a wallet-friendly, alcohol-free spot in Al Jaddaf. No bar in sight, but for thrifty travellers like us, the pool, gym, and tiny gift shop felt downright luxurious.

The catch for three girlies craving a night out? We’d accidentally landed in a hotel in an area that was both unwalkable and half-finished. For Cardiff natives used to strolling everywhere, it was a shock to discover we needed a cab or shuttle just to reach the nearest hint of fun.

Still, we vowed to explore at sunrise and surrendered to sleep by 8pm, feeling like the city had slammed its doors on us before we’d even begun.

The next morning, we set out to see Dubai on a shoestring. In 2012, the city was erupting with glittering skyscrapers and a parade of new luxury hotels, restaurants, and shops. Dubai’s growth is relentless, with booming investment and ambitious plans to double its economy and expand for millions more residents.

Even then, wandering the vast malls and downtown sidewalks felt surreal; everything was too shiny, too perfect, too blindingly bright. The Burj Khalifa and Dubai Mall anchored the city, but much of the skyline was still a patchwork of cranes and half-finished towers.

Maybe my discomfort stemmed from Dubai’s identity as a city built overnight for the world, rather than one that grew slowly over time. You cannot catapult from a small fishing village to a global megacity in a generation without leaving a trace of something synthetic.

Especially as it seems designed around shopping malls, luxury hotels, and record-breaking attractions, which can feel like a curated “Disneyland” version of a city rather than one built for actual living. A largely transient population also adds to the strangeness of it all.

Of course, the most uncomfortable truth is that this glittering metropolis of wealth and skyscrapers was largely built on the backs of workers working in questionable conditions.

Awareness of labour abuse in Dubai began to rise in the early to mid-2000s, driven by reports from human rights organisations and international media. Human Rights Watch criticised the UAE in 2003 for discriminating against Asian workers, and by 2006, protests by migrant construction workers gained significant international attention.

It remains a massive issue, yet many Brits who live or holiday there are extremely reluctant to talk about it, brushing aside uncomfortable truths like forced labour and migrant deaths. After all, why ruin an Instagrammable brunch with talk of modern slavery?

The Global Slavery Index 2023 estimates that 13.4 people per thousand in the UAE are trapped in modern slavery, including forced labour and forced marriage. As human rights organisation Walk Free explains, the ‘kafala system’ in Dubai hands employers sweeping control over migrant workers’ lives, making it nearly impossible for them to seek help or escape abuse.

Migrant workers face risks of forced labour, particularly in the construction, domestic work, and service industries under this oppressive system.

Allegations of forced labour occurred in the construction of, and during, the Dubai Expo 2020, with indications that workers from Bangladesh, India, Kenya, Nepal, and Pakistan had their passports confiscated, wages withheld, were forced to work long hours, and lived in poor conditions.

Back then, as we boarded the monorail to look around the man-made wonder of Palm Jumeirah, I had no idea about Dubai’s shadowy secrets; I wasn’t as terminally online in my 20s.

Finished in 2001, Palm Jumeirah is one of Dubai’s crown jewels, sparkling with luxury: Atlantis, The Palm, exclusive homes, private beaches, and the sweeping 11-km boardwalk.

Architecturally, it is impossible not to be impressed. The palm-shaped island, with its trunk, 17 fronds, and sweeping crescent breakwater, is so massive you can spot it from space. We visited the beach and the astonishing Atlantis aquarium, and it was honestly my favourite part of the entire trip.

In 2012, it was open but still being developed; now, Palm Jumeirah is a polished playground of private residences, chic hotels, and beach clubs teeming with beautiful people. If I felt out of place then, I would be utterly invisible now. Is entry even possible without a face sculpted by filler and Botox?

Looking back as I write this in admittedly rainy Britain, and squinting at the few grainy photos I have from that time, I ponder whether, if Dubai felt surreal in 2012, I am completely unequipped to process the soulless version that exists today.

While Dubai is home to many wonderful, ordinary people, a quick scroll through social media or chats with friends living there paints a different picture.

In recent years, the city has become a magnet for TikTokers, crypto evangelists, motivational grifters, and dead-eyed manosphere influencers who call themselves “high value men” while renting Lamborghinis by the hour.

The pitch is always the same. Zero tax. Infinite sunshine. A dreamy, gold-plated life free from the horrors of Western democracy.

Unfortunately, the fantasy has hit a minor snag of late: missiles. As the US-Iran conflict spilt into the Gulf, Dubai’s skies filled with air defence intercepts, emergency sirens and flaming debris, not exactly the #blessed life Dubai promises.

As the UK Foreign Office urged Brits in Dubai to shelter in place, suddenly, protein bowls photos and workout videos were replaced by viral clips of luxury hotels in Dubai on fire, or sustaining damage during a series of intercepted Iranian missile and drone strikes.

For a few surreal hours, wide-eyed influencers moonlighted as war correspondents. Then, something strange started happening.

The videos vanished. In their place, a bizarre new genre emerged: slow-motion clips of the country’s rulers set to soaring music, and beaming beach club selfies and TikToks with captions that reeked of PR in overdrive.

A repeating phrase appearing across dozens of accounts like a copy-pasted mantra lauding Dubai as the safest place you could possibly be right now: “We know who protects us.”

It has the slightly haunted cadence of a message recorded under supervision. The tone is less triumphant patriotism and more hostage video filmed beside an infinity pool. Blink twice if you need a repatriation flight.

The enthusiasm is understandable when you remember that publicly insulting the government in the UAE can lead to fines of up to £200,000, deportation or several years in prison. Under those circumstances, most people would also discover a sudden appreciation for the regime.

And so, the spectacle continues. Influencers beam blinding veneers under the desert sun, striding along sidewalks to preach discipline, masculinity, and crypto as fragments of intercepted drones are resoundingly ignored. The soundtrack is always motivational, lighting is flawless, and the smiles never slip. Just another day in paradise, only slightly on fire.