2 Seeds In Dubai!

By KingDez Borejszo

The general traveler, or tourist, is unaware of the dangers of visiting Dubai. A simple thing like pain medication, or sleeping tablets, can put the uninformed directly in Prison for as much a four years. Trace elements of narcotics found in the blood can be worse.

This is what happened to KingDez after a customs agent discovered 2 seeds of cannabis in his luggage, and he was arrested for drug trafficking.

2 Seeds in Dubai chronicles the nightmare from being arrested, to going to court, to finally being deported and losing everything he had.

A definite read if you plan to visit the beguiling city in the desert that glitters but is not gold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326300227

Book preview

2 Seeds In Dubai!

2 Seeds In Dubai!

This is not a book about agriculture.

A KingDez Shot..

Copyright

**

First published 2014 by KingDez

The right of the author to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

Copyright © Desmond Mark Borejszo 2014.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-326-30022-7

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form,

or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording

or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution

and civil claims for damages.

This book is dedicated to Dane Van Der Walt, founder of INISHI8

a division of Dubmental. This was your idea buddy.

Thanks for the constant pressure.

I would also like to thank the following people for taking

the time out of their busy lives to visit me.

Jakub Michalik, Piotr and Jowita Szablowska, Brendon Poole,

Kenshaw, Paprika, My Filipino and Sri Lankan staff,

and special mention to Kuba’s wife Kiki,

for all the help she gave my mother.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,

or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover design by James Taylor of Design Logic.

For other titles from KingDez please go to my BLOG

where you can buy books and read articles by the author.

**

Prologue

Morning, Brazzaville, Congo, January something.

This day was a day unlike any other.

With me, they never are. The night before, I had snorted cocaine mixed with some unknown substance that made it pink. Pink of all things, seems so innocent; however, this fact meant that even if I had beaten the smuggling marijuana charges, that concoction would show up in my blood, and it would mean I was fucked anyway. If I had let them take my blood that is.

I have a tendency in my life to take the good things — Family, school and work — and make a decent job of screwing them all up. This situation was to be no different. I have been fired from most of the jobs I ever worked at, but this time I was to be sentenced and jailed, and would lose the job I had anyway; so, much the same difference.

Fired, prison, tomato, tomayto.

At least when you get the axe from some shitty job you only have to do the walk of shame with your desk junk and a few co-workers — most of them happy to see you go — giving you the, ‘farewell jackass', as you limp to the exit.

The end of this little drama sees me being deported, and nothing makes you feel more like a tit than being escorted through the departures section of the airport in shackles, with air hostesses making room for you as though you’ve got a healthy dose of leprosy. It kind of puts a cramp in any plans you may have had for picking them up.

Sadly, you will note that this is not the first time I have forcibly had to leave a country.

Thailand was another.

There I was rudely ejected because I had overstayed my visa, which is not so fascinating in itself, but the facts that caused me to overstay are.

That’s another story.

Mozambique also helped me out of the country with a dedicated police escort after a mild fracas with the locals, and I was never happier to see the back of a place.

Both of these are compelling tales, but for another time.

For now we need to stay focused on the case at hand, namely, how such a pillar of society, a symbol of all that's right with humanity, and certainly a fellow you would never like your daughter to date, ended up shoeless in the penal system of the Emirates.

I guess I should explain the circumstances of how my puffy-eyes and bleary face came to be in the Congo that fateful morning. At the time, I was working for a company in Dubai: good salary, good job, reliable air conditioning; and then a friend offered me supplementary rigging work in Brazzaville, in the Congo.

Making extra dosh is always a pleasant thing, so I leapt at the chance. 

My chaps at work in Dubai were doing well, so a few days away wouldn’t cause a major wrinkle in the grander scheme of things.

That was the last time I saw the chaps, the company, or the city of Dubai, or any grand scheme of anything.

The Congo project was for some or other Arab sheik and we worked hard, and drank even harder. The night before we were due to leave we had a bigger shindig than usual, and while it was in full swing, an Australian fellow working with us called me on the phone, and said I should come down to his room as he had a surprise for me.

When I arrived he was sitting smug-faced, with a black dude occupying a corner chair, and there were several powdered lines spread out on the table. This was the stuff I mentioned earlier, all pink and innocent.

He pointed to the lines and said that it was coke, and I should have a whack at it.

If you know me, you know I don’t have to be asked twice. I was all over the stuff like the smell on a dead fish.

Bad idea, because that was the last thing I remember of the night. Next thing I know it’s morning and someone’s bashing in the door. It’s one of the other riggers, ‘S M’, and he’s gabbling that the bus to the airport is leaving and unless I want to miss my flight I’d better be on it.

Miss my flight? Bus?

I didn’t even know where the fuck I was.

Where I was, was in my mate’s room. But he had already pushed off, so it took a few moments to figure this out and then crawl to my own quarters, pack my shit and get onto the bus.

I somehow succeeded, and I know this because my next recollection is of me sitting on a pavement in Ethiopia (video on my Facebook page) and then arriving at that horrid airport in Dubai. If you don’t think Dubai’s airport is horrid, trust me — when you’re being handcuffed and shoved into a sheep van you can be in the Taj Mahal, and it’s fucking horrid.

Before all that happened, in Brazzaville, I was playing silly buggers, breaking furniture, snorting coke and smoking weed, passing out, getting on a bus, flying to Addis Ababa and then on to Dubai and the travesty in this little chain of events is that I never thoroughly cleaned out my bag in my haste to get trashed and thereafter to the airport.

The day before my little soiree and when we were to depart from ‘Braza' or the Heart of Darkness, some of the fellows had left for the UAE and one of them gave me his leftover weed. I pocketed the stuff in my sports bag, and because I don’t usually smoke the Devil’s lettuce, I tossed it out in my room. Stupidly I did not rinse out my bag. The dudes that had left the day before had called from Dubai and said they’d been thoroughly searched, and their bags were scraped for anything prohibited. In Dubai, a dirty thought is prohibited, so what chance did I have?

The boss of the project, who was with us in Brazzaville, also said that we should not take any chances — we should wash out our bags. Did I listen? No. I wanted to party, and party I did.

There's a vague recollection of me being chased through the city by black prostitutes in blond wigs and high heels, and us with much cunning tying a taxi to a flag pole, and other sordid antics my mind still seeks to bury. According to my video camera I was having a smashing time, and life was terrific and then I got my ass banged up.

No pun intended.

All of my best memories seem to end this way.

So, through much effort, I made it over many thousands of kilometres and two countries, two continents, half conscious and half sober, only to find myself locked up. If I’d known that there’d be handcuffs waiting for me and not slobbering kisses, I wouldn’t have got off the damned couch I had passed out on. But such is life. I arrived in Dubai and crawled through customs only to have this beastly little Arab man come slithering towards me. He had a pinched face, like someone who hasn’t had a decent bowel movement in a while, and this was covered with a shrub of a beard. I felt God-awful and probably looked much worse, so the last thing I wanted was to have to endure some protracted questioning by an arsehole who barely spoke English. I was the essence of politeness.

‘How are you, sir? Yeah, all great, sir. I’m dead tired - could you bugger off please, sir?’ and things to that effect. His beady little eyes were not impressed, and he insisted that I go with him through a door off to the side of the main passage.

For God’s sake, was this day going to get any worse? The only respite I had was that I hadn’t seen that blasted Australian since Ethiopia. Little did I know that he and I were about to be reunited, and it wasn’t going to be a pleasant match — one of those cases where a reeking pest manifests at your house, and you can’t find a good excuse to see him off. In my situation, I wouldn’t be rid of him for three months … but I digress. I followed the Arab oxygen-thief in his girly white dress and head bandage, and we ended up in a sparsely decorated room, there he asked me to pull my pants down.

I pulled a funny face instead. I then leant in closer to make sure that I’ve heard right, and I say something intelligent, like, ‘What?’

This time the putrid little man indicated with his hands that he wanted me to pull my pants down, and he becomes all excited, and gets a little too close for comfort.

‘Pull down, pull down, pull down! Like this!’ Like a bad mime.

So, I’m like ‘what the fuck?’ Fine, if he wants me to pull my pants down, then I’ll pull them down.

My pants hit the floor, and I’m starting to feel depressed and wishing that I could get my hands on a cold beer, and then the fucker wants me to remove my shorts too. You see how, when you think your day can’t get any worse, life has a way kicking you in the nuts just so you know it can?

This was one of those days.

Now I’m not shy by any standards, and if any individual wants to look at my junk, all he has to do is ask. God knows I’ve exposed myself for no good reason before, but the attitude on this guy was quite unnerving; kind of like he was expecting whatever I had under my shorts to pop up and offer a little song and dance.

I start to do the whole ‘I’m not really sure I want to’ thing and the dip-shit freaks out, saying he’ll call the police, and he’s getting even more fired up.

Like I say, not actually the kind of person I’d like to have a drink and chat with if I met him at a party.

I figured what the hell, I may as well show him the Asian eye and get the hell out of there; maybe catch a couple of cold ones at my local hotel. If ever there were a soul that needed a bit of liquid soothing, it was - at that moment - mine.

But no, my destiny was in another direction - preceded by me degrading myself by letting this individual ogle my genitals.

So I drop my shorts and feel a cold breeze as he gets in for a close-up. Apparently my penis isn’t enough, and he wants to gaze at my nut sack. Jesus!

But we’ve come this far – so, whatever; and I lift my member, and he has a good squizz at my pouch, and just when I think he’s observed enough man-fruit for the day, he tells me to turn around and bend over.

Really? Really? Are you fucking kidding me?

I once was raped in the Sandton Hilton by three female models, but this was much worse. This guy’s having a laugh. Bend over? What for? You’re looking for the sun, are you?

I hated life then like I’d never hated it before.  Why is this happening? There’s no way it can get any worse. No way, not possible! I should’ve been chilling at the Red Dragon pub, or even in my tiny shack watching crappy Arabic television - not being abused by this walking haemorrhoid.

Again I say that life had other plans, and indeed it was going to get worse, far worse before I would hold anything colder than my own Johnson in my hand.

This journey was just beginning.

Customs boy started getting all excited again and yelling about the police, so I bent over and showed him the moon.

Chapter 1

The Penny Drops!

The poster boy for middle-eastern tourism concluded his enquiry into whether the sun did in fact, shine from my ass.

Then he instructed me to pull up my pants and to follow him with my bag.

With much shame and a general feeling of being violated, I covered my unmentionables and toddled after this heinous man. We arrived at a line of polished steel tables onto one of which I placed my bag. Then his friend arrived and looked at me as one might look at something that they had stepped in, that the dog had left behind. Not, that is, with amity and charm. Now I had two of these chaps to ruin my day and if the first guy had been a haemorrhoid, the second was its asshole.

A perfect team. Prattling away as though I wasn’t there, they proceeded to dismantle my bag.

It reminded me of two hookers going through a wallet that they’d found in a side-street.

While the last bit of my dignity was being shredded, Mr Australia arrived at the table next to mine.

He looked pretty shabby; like something that had fallen from a great height and hit a particularly hard haystack, and bounced.

Since I was going to be afflicted by the man for the next few months, I’d better describe this boil on the backside of society.

Obviously, for legal reasons, when writing about incarceration, one cannot use a person’s real name.

Therefore, we will call him Alan. I have indicated that Alan was from Australia, so he had the foul accent common on that land-mass; and yet that wasn’t quite as bad as his need to speak at a volume reserved for ships’ foghorns. He’d made it common knowledge that he was in the Foreign Legion and, due to gunfire as close as dammit to his eardrums, he was slightly deaf and thus the constant yelling. Even the yelling was not the worst characteristic of his persona.

For me, it was the lack of variety in his vernacular.

Not having much of a word pool to draw from, he was versatile in the use of ‘fuck’.

Everything was a fuck, fucken, or fucker, contorted into a verb, noun or adjective. Sentences like, ‘fuck that fucken fucker,’ were not uncommon and this, in conjunction with racial epithets and anti-religious sentiment, at serious volume, made being around him an awkward experience for souls like me, sensitised to social nuance.

From the top of his head to the underneath of his feet he was an unashamed bigot of immense proportions — not someone you want to be with when politeness is the key to survival.

Physically, he is built along the lines of a spastic giraffe — all height and no width. Tall by anybody’s standards, with a head topped by a short-cropped scrap of mud-brown hair and a face nicely suited for ‘wanted’ posters. Deep-set eyes lurk beside a nose that has the side profile of a rock-strewn ski slope. Below this crooked beak is a thin-lipped orifice that only shuts when he is asleep and even then, much to the dismay of anyone unfortunate enough to rest near him, produces a snore of lumberjack virility. Long arms dangle from narrow shoulders that top a skinny midsection and ostrich legs. One meeting with Alan is enough to scar him into your psyche for life, and getting him out again is the stuff of therapy.

So, while Alan was getting comfortable, my two tormentors had strewn my belongings about the table and were fiddling with each item I owned. By fiddling I mean digging their fingers into every pocket, hem and lining of the articles on which I’d spent my hard-earned currency.

Having found nothing of interest besides a couple of skid-marks on my underwear, they turned their attention to the bag itself.

Here they began excavating the crud from the bottom of the bag and the amount that they managed to scrounge out had me blushing. Fragments of popcorn and what looked like cheese and all sorts of gum and hair were deposited on the table in front of me.

This detritus was then sifted through by the new guy in our playgroup, with the assiduity of a prospector panning for alluvial gold. And apparently like a prospector he found a nugget — as he let out a yell of glee not uncommon in little girls when they discover a Barbie doll in their birthday stash.

I nearly soiled my skid-mark laced jocks at the sudden shriek. The two comrades slapped each others’ backs and gibbered, then idiot number two showed me something that was pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

It was so very small I struggled to see what it was, but when I managed to focus on the blasted object I saw it was a seed.

A very small seed.

Thinking this guy was a fucking idiot I told him it was a seed, and asked him why the fuss.

Please bear in mind that I come from a land where a shopping bag full of marijuana would hardly elicit a raised eyebrow. I have, in fact, taken strolls through fields tall enough to block out the sunlight; so this little man’s hopping about like he had the winning lotto numbers made no sense to me.

He said, ‘This is drugs!’