After living in Dubai for many years, you start to think and act differently, whether it’s becoming jaded towards certain types of people or places, or simply forgetting that the rest of the world can’t afford, to have a maid in once a week as most of us Dubai-ians do, who deem it a necessity.
Living in this shiny bubble of a sandpit for three years, I didn’t consider myself changed by Dubai… That was until I visited London. Little things like nobody helping me on the metro, as I struggled to lug 40 Kgs of suit cases, or visiting my friends shared house and being disgusted that 5 people shared 1 bathroom. It was then I knew…. I had changed maybe for the worse, of course placing some blame on myself but using Dubai as the main scape goat.
So when the opportunity to earn a bit of extra cash on the weekend, and a chance to redeem my snobbish ways arouse I jumped at… Little did I know that it would become known as the “Pie Selling HELL”
Job: Selling Pies at the Rugby 7′s
Weight on the first day: 57 kilos
Out Look on Life: Happy
I arrived at the Marina Mall, with butterflies in my stomach not knowing anybody. Once I arrived it seemed everybody had formed their own little cliques (and like high school) I wasn’t cool enough. I looked over and there was another girl standing by herself with the, same look I had so I shrugged and lit up my first cigaret of the day. The girl came over and introduced herself as Annabelle, she seemed cool so we went and got a coffee and waited for the bus to arrive.
Once we got to the Rugby 7′s we were issued with black and yellow srtippy shirts, handed bags to put over our fronts which the pies were to be sold from. Annabelle and I by then had formed the kind of friendship that could only be described as magical, and decided that we were going to team up together.
Taking our 30 pies in the case, we walked up and down the blechers, myself singing “Pies Pies for sale, there going cheap” to the theme of Oliver Twist… Up and down up and down those bleachers we walked, selling pies to families, smurfs and people dressed up as 50′s sailors. Finally after an hour I had sold my first batch and headed back to base to fill up. As the sun got higher and higher my mood got darker and darker, which was only lifted by the occasional swig of a beer I had from a friend at the 7′s.
200 pies later, with more drunk Australians, British and South Africans you could poke a stick at I had enough, men trying to pinch your bum, people throwing cans in my direction. The only slither of light came from the VERY drunk girls who demanded pies, in slurred tones.
12 hours later our shift was finished… We were limping… Actually limping to the car park… Where Annabelle and I realized that the bus had left and we would have to fight to get a taxi.
Job: Selling Pies at the Rugby 7′s
Weight on the second day: 55 kilos
Out Look on Life: Suicide
Waking up at 6.30am for my final day of pie selling, I started to cry, I could barley walk, was emotionally and physically exhausted, and finally coming to term with he fact that I could not handle hard labor. Now I’m not proud of this, but I sms’d our promotions leader and told her “Sorry I’m not coming in” which she replied they needed extra hands in the pie station, and would I do that… Not having to put up with drunken fools and walking up the bleachers I agreed.
For 12 hours straight we counted pies, put them into the bags, pulled pies out of oven trays, burned hands and arms, solving fights, gave out water and all in all ran around like crazy people.
To sum it up… I will NEVER eat another pie again…
More to come in my saga of being a promo girl in Dubai.