Are you being served? Oh, yes

Mark Townsend suffers death by a thousand hot flannels at Dubai's first boutique hotel, gets into a pillow fight with the staff and tries to remember he can do some things for himself

Mark Townsend
The Observer,
Sunday October 26 2003

I had been in Dubai moments and already was in danger of being flannelled to death. They came from all directions. Each slice of damp cloth, glistening evidence of the tiny Arab emirate's determination to hoist pampering to a new level, was propelled towards me with a breathless welcoming vigour. Marinated in rose, lavender and sandalwood oils, these mini towels had been frozen, thawed and carefully handrolled just so I could savour a few seconds' respite from the heat.

The five-star Mina A' Salam hotel - Dubai's so-called first 'boutique' hotel (boutique because it has 292 as opposed to 88,368 rooms?) - had 10,000 such flannels, 34 for each of its palatial bedrooms. Open for just a few weeks, my only initial concern was that the unerring dedication of its 4,000 staff to cooling my brow meant they'd all be shattered by the start of Ramadan.

The Mina A' Salam is Dubai's latest dramatic attempt to redefine opulence for those craving a fix of winter sun. And had I needed reminding of its mission, I only needed shuffle onto my handcarved wooden verandah.

To my left, snaking 10 miles into the Gulf of Arabia, twinkled the embryonic silhouette of the Palm Jumeirah, the future holiday homes of Michael Owen and David Beckham. Arguably the most audacious engineering tourist project ever, the man-made island can already be seen from space.

And to my right, imperious above the crashing surf of the Arabian Sea, loomed the world's tallest hotel, the seven-star Burj Al Arab.

Taller than the Eiffel Tower, the hotel comes with gold fittings in all rooms, a 60ft fountain in its jewel-studded lobby and is capped with a sumptuous restaurant where those picking timidly at their nouvelle cuisine are most likely masochistic vertigo-sufferers.

Sucking in the hot evening air - even that was beginning to taste oddly luxurious - I shuffled back into the 50 square metres of room 316, pausing to snatch a flute of the complimentary dry white and inspect the platter of freshly made meze that magically appeared every time I double-checked whether the view was in fact real.

Dinner was being served in 30 minutes and by the time I'd got the ambience right - there were 12 room lights goddamit - and taken another slug of chardonnay, I was well behind schedule. Fortunately, the entire Arabian Peninsula seemed intent on helping me prepare. First, an entourage appeared at my door with a staggering stack of pillows they began arranging on my not-so-modest bed.

Telling them I'd lost my toothbrush on the flight provoked instant chaos. Within moments another two chaps had arrived, each carrying a brush. Despite insisting one would suffice, it was no good. After all, why have one when two might do. Glancing nervously at my watch, I set about scrubbing my gnashers while another member of staff checked that the scented candle above my cavernous bath had been lit.

Then the phone rang. Room service. 'Is everything to your satisfaction sir?' Briefly inspecting my surroundings, I was tempted to observe the pillows could do with more plumping. 'Is there anything at all we could improve, sir?' came the sixth question regarding the service. Another plate of meze? Another bottle of white? A private masseur perhaps? And to think all I wanted was to brush my teeth.

Mina A' Salam is about being spoiled rotten. If you're a stickler for service, if you've ever fancied being waited on hand and foot, you're gonna settle in pretty damn quickly.

Like everything else at the replica Arabic palace, the food was stunning - a choice of modern Chinese, seafood, and Arabic dishes served overlooking a natural harbour, a calculated nod back to a none-too-distant time when Dubai was a small port rather than a jetsetters' paradise.

And the softly lit bars are recommended for their eclectic clientele alone, an exotic concoction of sunstarved Brits, wealthy families from the subcontinent and relaxed Arab businessmen.

Back at room 316 an array of chocolates, wrapped in sisal used traditionally in Dubai's old port to wrap coffee beans and rice, lay upon my expanding mountain of pillows.

Alongside sat a handwritten letter from the hotel manager John Pelling - the fifth so far - inquiring if my stay was to my liking and imploring me to digest a packet of motion sickness pills. Had someone reported me tottering back from the bar? I finally remembered - deep-sea fishing. A morning of scouring the Gulf for sailfish.

Our quest began 10 miles offshore from the summit of the Burj Al Arab and beyond the convoy of dredgers scooping millions of tons of sand to build Beckham's Palm Island. Days earlier, our skipper had taken Paul Gascoigne, recently signed by a United Arab Emirates team, fishing for sailfish.

While the Geordie footballer landed several generous-sized specimens, I succeeded only in catching some small-time barracuda. I consoled myself with the fact I hadn't just been signed up for first-team football in a fiercely competitive international league. Though, on reflection, neither had Gazza.

If wrestling against monsters of the deep isn't your cup of tea, guests can always try swooshing down towering sand dunes on a snowboard. As pastimes go, it sounds faintly ridiculous. And in fact is. Yet it becomes strangely addictive, even after your sweat-soaked head is burrowed deep beneath the desert after yet another half-turn back flip crumbles into indignity.

Alternatively, why not just lie on the stuff - the kilometre of private sand belonging to the Mina A' Salam is a thoroughly exceptional beach.

Again, expect to be plied with generous helpings of damp flannels. Even a quick cigarette can offer an insight into the world of the Hollywood film star. Before it can touch your lips, beaming waiters sprint over with a lighter while a colleague places a traditional clay ashtray onto the nearby sand, before you can even exhale. I'm sure if you asked them to smoke it for you they would.

The Arabian Gulf itself is a delight, the clear waters warmed delightfully by the unremitting sunshine and temperatures hovering constantly around 30C. And, as on land, nothing is left to chance. At one point I had three lifeguards supervising me as I doggy-paddled in knee-deep water. A fourth sat nearby on a kayak looking suspiciously like he was trying to stifle a smirk.

Even the chances of stubbing a toe on a rogue lump of seabed stone have been addressed. At dawn the beach is scrupulously cleansed of such offending items by a small army of workers. In fact the only real danger remains suffocation or drowning by those ubiquitous flannels.