The Emiratis are proud of their cities and with good reason. The impressive cityscape in this photo simply wasn’t there fifty years before. Abu Dhabi was nought but a sandbank with a few one-storey buildings well into the 1970s.

During my time in the Emirates, it was not uncommon to hear ex-pats self-righteously complain that ‘things were slow’ in the Emirates. However, I’d like to see a city anywhere in the world built with the determination and speed matching those lining the Arabian Gulf.

During the same fifty years, European cities like London, Paris or Rome indeed sprawled. The odd tower popped up here and there—but in no way, shape or form can the change be said to be the equal of the transformation taking place in the Emirates.

It is also necessary to consider that whereas the old-world cities had hundreds of years of accumulated urban development experience, the Emirates began with no such advantage.

On the contrary, they had suffered a hard existence, lived from hand-to-mouth, were part nomadic, and must endure life in extreme heat and humidity. Conditions were so severe that the moisturiser wielding and air-conditioned white-collar worker of today would perish without ceremony or delay were he to endeavour the half of it.

No, the Emiratis of the mid-20th century were singularly tough and capable people.

Cities like Abu Dhabi do not just ‘happen’. Of course, something must be attributed to good fortune:

First, they discovered oil, and with oil, wealth.

Second, they had installed an unusually adept leader, the late Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan, a man of vision, capability and political genius.

But leaders and wealth alone are not enough to generate sustainable value. Thus, a significant portion of the credit for ‘the Emirates’ we see today must go to the Emiratis themselves.

During many years and countless cups of coffee enjoyed in the company of this country’s men and women, I have had a prize-winning number of preconceptions shattered—to my significant advantage.

I burn at the slightest hint of sunlight; the accursed sun lotion gets in my eyes and stings like original sin; the sand that sticks to everything always finds its way into the house and from there invariably into my bed.

However, on occasion, when mother nature offers up a helping of rain to wash clean the slate of the sunburned, overheated and sand-covered tourist, life can be good. Very very good.

And unlike home in Norway, it can be enjoyed with the certainty that there will be sun again in an hour…

– “And—uhm—where are we going to swim?”, we enquired of Ron, the proprietor of our hotel, with an unmistakingly rueful intonation.⠀

Like so many people dwelling by the sea, Ron had grown accustomed to its presence and forgotten the desperate craving felt by those of us who live by colder, less friendly shores. A desire to immerse ourselves in warm⠀sea-water.

– “In the pool!”, said Ron, smiling broadly and triumphantly.

For an instant, it grew colder.

Ron’s smile wavered.

The conversation that followed encompassed all five stages of grief. Right at the transition between depression and acceptance; when we were nearly resigned to our fate, Ron interjected the following:

– “…and then there is always La Piscina.”

Here’s what we learned:

The beaches on the ‘Caribbean side’ of Isla Colon are exposed to the open sea and constant surf making swimming more perilous than pleasant for those of a more leisurely disposition, i.e. me.

Getting on a bicycle and pedalling along the rough jungle track for about 5 km past Bluff Beach will lead you to a small secluded beach surrounded by jungle on three sides and sheltered from the angrier waves of the Caribbean by a reef.

Here the water is warm, the sea calm, the people few and far between – and the tranquillity absolute.

To others who might find themselves beached at Bluff, La Piscina may your salvation too.