I have a long list of places I’d like to visit, but am aware I’ll probably never get the opportunity: Florence, Italy; Lagos, Nigeria; both Antarctica and the far North; Istanbul (but that one scares me, I’d probably get arrested); and many others. I’m fortunate that I have been able to visit the Galapagos Islands, Beijing, China, and a scattering of places in Europe. If I had infinite money, I’d probably be flying off to a new place every week.

But one place I never, ever want to see is Dubai. My infinite money has a limit, and that limit stops cold at hellholes of vast wealth (I know, that’s a contradiction, but I will never have infinite, or even large amounts, of money, but Dubai actually does exist.) One journalist visited the place and now regrets it.

I went to Dubai wrongheaded. I learnt nothing and left nauseated. I had thought it would be fun – funny, even – to experience the disorientation of standing at the pivot point between two world systems. Instead, it was merely disorientating – sickeningly so. There are hells on earth and Dubai is one: an infernal creation born of the worst of human tendencies. Its hellishness cannot be laid solely at the feet of the oligarchs, whose wealth it attracts, nor the violent organised criminals who relocate there to avoid prosecution. It is hellish because, as the self-appointed showtown of free trade, it provides normal people with the chance to buy the purest form of the most heinous commodity: the exploitation of others. If you want to know how it feels to have slaves, in the modern world – and not be blamed openly for this desire – visit Dubai. But know that you will not be blameless for doing so. Every Instagram post, every TikTok video, every gloating WhatsApp message sent from its luxury is an abomination. A PR campaign run by those who have already bought the product, and now want only to show you that they can afford it.

I am ashamed to have visited. There are some experiences that journalism cannot excuse. I add nothing to the record by having gone. I thought the trip would present a grotesque tapestry that might disclose some new truth about the reordering of the world. It got the better of me. I imagined a gonzo-style reveal about ordering a mojito in Russian from an Indian barman while gazing towards Iran. All of this is possible, but none of it makes my visit worthwhile.

That’s about how I feel about the place. It’s an abomination, the end result of shameful wealth inequity, and I have no empathy to share with the rich tourists who fly there to do…what? I don’t know.