It ended on Thursday—which was good. But then it started on Sunday—which was less so.

Until then, I cannot in good conscience say that I knew what a Sunday morning looked like, nor indeed if such a thing as a Sunday morning even existed. If I had ever experienced one, it must have been that I hadn’t gotten to bed yet.

So, Friday became the new Sunday. But that turned out to be impossible to explain to colleagues and clients back in Norway; for them, Friday was the day for meetings. Particularly in the latter part of the day.

Time-wise, Europe is two or three hours behind the Emirates, depending on the accursed impact of daylight saving time. Around midday, my phone would start behaving in a most un-Sunday-like manner; something that would persist until about seven in the evening.

But Arabia had more tricks up its sleeve to mess up my work week. After a few years, I became involved in a project in the neighbouring country of Oman. Here the working week at that time started on Saturday and ran through Wednesday.

And, just like that, weekend as I knew it was abolished. I’d work in the Emirates from Sunday to Thursday, have meetings with Europe on Fridays and then fly to Oman to work Saturdays.

But there was still Thursday nights. Due to the time difference, I could sleep in for a couple of hours on Friday mornings.

And how better to spend Thursday night than to gather up some camping gear, go to the desert, light a bonfire and watch the sunset. A new scene every time in an ever-shifting landscape of sand.

The Arabian camel is a single-humped dromedary with a sharp, bony spine that it is exceptionally unpleasant to sit on. That accounts for my position on camels.

As for why camels do not like me, I can only speculate. It might have to do with how the camels perceive the discrepancy between their own load-bearing capacity and how I look to them. Smart animals.

Since the arrival of the hard-top road, the lorry, and the 4WD, the camel is no longer part of the Emirates’ transportation system. Still, the Emiratis, much to their credit, do not willingly abandon their heritage. Some 300 000 camels are kept, mostly for racing, a sport the Gulf Arabs revel in.

As with horses, camel racing is all about retaining control without burdening the animal with too much weight. For this reason, the camel jockey of yesteryear was a good deal younger than one might care to remember.

Luckily, the last twenty years have seen significant modernization to the sport. Since 2002, the age limit for camel jockeys in the Emirates was raised to 15 years. Nowadays, however, camels are increasingly jockeyed by robots.

It is an odd meeting between high-tech and low-tech to see camel races with a robot jockey at the reins, remote-controlled by an overjoyed Emirati racing alongside the camel from the comfort of a car.

The Emiratis were also happy about their dunes, but for a different reason; one that had little to do with tranquillity.

Most Emiratis are what one might call regular, highly likeable people leading ordinary lives, far removed from the Oil Sheikh stereotype. But ‘most’ is not ‘all’, and the reputation of the Gulf Arab has not been conjured out of thin air.

The density of young males, ostensibly unburdened by fiscal woes, is high. The poorer among these will by default have a Rolex Submariner shining from their wrist—the more well-to-do something more respectable, such as an Audemars Piguet or a Patek Philippe.

Additionally, wealth is expressed through cars. The well-to-do Emirati likes their sports cars, and as with the timepieces, those of middling resources typically settle for some flavour of Porsche. Proper wealth, however, is more appropriately expressed through a Bugatti, a Maybach or a Koenigsegg of an unapologetic colour.

But the Emirati has a utilitarian streak to him and likes to keep an offroad vehicle, too. Unlike the European SUV-owner, who drives his car as if it was made of fine crystal, the Emirati has no need for paved surfaces.

‘Dune bashing’ is to Emiratis what skiing is to Norwegians; to those unfamiliar with the expression ‘dune bashing’, it is descriptive of a wide range of irresponsible driving malpractices in the desert.

At first, this was unusual to me. Still, after a time, I concluded that it would be wrong to dismiss this form of recreation purely based on its verifiable insanity.

Instead, I joined the Emiratis in their regard for sand driving and their disregard for their insurance companies.

The worst type of winter is the one that offers near-perpetual downpour, grey skies, short days and around-zero temperatures. That, incidentally, is the type of winter we have in Belgium – and indeed in most of the northern part of continental Europe.

Now, spring is never quite as far away here as it is back home in Norway. Still, the next two months will offer plenty of time and opportunity to reflect on the Belgian winter relative to that of other places; places that this winter will remain out of bounds.

I lived in Arabia for some years. There, I learned of another winter; a winter of pleasant temperatures, clear skies, perpetual sun, deserted beaches and indoor ski slopes.

So, as I ushered out 2020 by paying tribute to the nature of Belgium, I will work myself through the Belgian winter by reminiscing over warmer, sunnier days on the Arabian peninsula.

Initially, it had been my intention to spend only four weeks working in the United Arab Emirates. But, as time passed, one project turned into another and another until at the end of four years I was still there.

It was the nature that fascinated me the most about the Emirates. And, when talking about nature in Arabia, the mind quickly turns to the desert.

Desert is not the only type of nature in the Emirates, as I shall proceed to demonstrate over the next days and weeks—but admittedly the most prominent.

For that reason, I will start in the desert, with a sunrise view from the top of one of the vast sand dunes that mark the start of the Rub’ al Khali—the Empty Quarter—of the great Arabian Desert.

The sand dunes here are two-three hundred meters tall, creating an ever-shifting mountain landscape of red, orange, yellow, brown and grey sand that is set on fire by the sunrise and the sunset.

So, right now, while the rain is drizzling down on the Belgian winter dawn, join me here, albeit, for the moment, figuratively rather than literally.

Not even as a failure had my misadventure been complete.

My walk had yielded several photos of the mountain I had wanted to climb with which I was pleased. And, the sunset had been—as is the custom of sunsets—faultless.

But… to every silver lining, there is a cloud, and that cloud was now on my mind. My car was in urgent need of liberation from the clutches of the desert.

I took to pondering over solutions to my predicament. I first went over all secular options I could think of. But having exhausted these, for the briefest of time, my mind turned to religion.

Contrary to the fundamental doctrine of my upbringing, and for the first time in my life, I found myself coveting my neighbour’s ox.

I did not wish to lure his wife from him nor to dispossess him of his house, donkey or any anything else he might hold title to. And, I did not envy him his servants, whether male, female or gender-fluid. But his ox now, that might have been useful.

Some might at this stage point out that I had arrived at holy scripture and livestock solutions rather too quickly, bypassing more conventional means of car-rescue. To understand my train of thought, it is useful to know a little about my many and varied failings as a human being.

I find those solutions best that allow my role in the making of the underlying problem to remain obscure. Such solutions can by careful choice of words, be moulded into triumphs of human ingenuity, rather than conclusive evidence of an unsound mind.

On reflection, however, there seemed to be no way out of this proverbial and literal hole that excluded seeking help from others. My self-preservation instincts pulled rank on my pride.

I sought in vain for mitigating factors in which I could embalm the lacerated remains of my dignity. But, as hard as I thought, I could think of nothing to justify my folly.

Back on the main road, I stopped an ageing pickup containing eight(!) non-judgemental locals who were well-accustomed to the feeble-minded eccentricities of tourists.

By their inherent goodwill, brought forward by twenty Jordanian Dinars, my car was restored to the paved surface to which it belonged, and I with it.

And then the starts came out.

— ‘It is an, an…, ah yes, an INTERESTING vehicle’, I replied; using the word ‘interesting’ as one does when at a loss for a something to say, but strongly feels that a compliment is expected.

— ‘Yes, it is good—very very good!’, said Abdullah, much pleased, ‘I bought it from my brother, who bought it from my other brother, who bought it from his friend—in Saudia’

It did not require a great stretch of the mind to accept that this vehicle had been pre-owned. One might even suspect Abdullah’s brother’s brother’s friend of not having been the first owner.

The dashboard had several openings that looked as if they were not part of the original design. From these protruded a mess of wires. The odd spark could be seen but didn’t bother Abdullah.

Neither speedometer, odometer, nor oil or fuel gauges exhibited any signs of life. And all non-essentials such as the passenger assist grips, the rear-view mirror and the sun visors had longe since taken their leave.

Still, much of the steering wheel was intact, and several of the gears were in working order. And even the most critical observer could count four rotating, albeit threadbare, wheels.

Yet, this was not a spartan vehicle. The interior was decorated, and lavishly so. There was not a vacant spot that had not been devoted to beautification.

There was, of course, plush dice suspended from where the rear-view mirror had once been. There was a vase with artificial flowers—and there was a small mint-green alarm clock in the shape of a mosque with two golden-domed minarets.

Among the many eye-pieces, a tiny green container was glued to the dashboard. From it emanated an unimaginably powerful scent that hit me so hard, it instinctively had me reach for the handle to roll down the window. Unsurprisingly, it was no longer there.

In any event, that turned out not to be a problem there wasn’t any window to roll down. It was permanently jammed in the lower position.

In Wadi Rum, though, I wouldn’t have wished for another car for the world!

Sanddyne i ørkenen mellom Abu Dhabi og Al Ain i låg kveldssol

Handling er ein fin ting, men det finst grenser for kor lenge ein kan rusle kringom i Abu Dhabi og handle. Ein kan naturlegvis variere med å ta seg ein tur til Dubai for å handle. Men det er, når alt kjem til alt, ikkje så veldig annerleis å handle i eitt stort kjøpesenter enn det er i eitt anna. Eitt populært alternativ er å køyre ut i ørkenen med ein firehjulsdriven bil og la trafikkreglane bli att på vegen.

Å køyre i sanden er ein kunst arabarane kan. Det viktigaste er å ikkje stanse, men heile tida halde bilen i rørsle. For å få betre grep i den lause sanden tappar ein også gjerne ut noko lufta or dekka. Deretter køyrer ein som ein villmann i sanddynene utan overdriven respekt for liv og helse hjå passasjerar eller andre bilistar.

Onsdagsettermiddagen la Tove, Jorunn, Jens, Mike og eg ut på tur saman med ein halvgalen indisk sjåfør for å prøve oss på sanddynene mellom Abu Dhabi og Al Ain. Bileta over/under var tekne på denne turen. Det var ein langt tryggare tur enn dei eg har prøvd før i Brasil, men likevel tilstrekkeleg til å byggje opp atskilleg adrenalin i skrotten.

På vegen ut til dynene var vi innom ein kamelfarm. Her kunne ein kjøpe seg ein ordinær kamel for mellom 1 000 og 2 000 DHS. Det vart ikkje kjøpt noko denne dagen.

Arabarar i Land Cruiserar leikar seg i sanden.

Det er vanskeleg å skjøne kvifor bilane ikkje kvelvar slik det vert køyrt. Det er enno vanskelegare å skjøne når ein sit inni.

Medan det framleis er lyst like etter solnedgong får sanddynene ein mjuk, fløyelsaktig utsjåand.