For a time, I had a colleague in Abu Dhabi, who was a self-professed outdoors’ man. I considered myself one, too, but had to concede that I played in the little leagues compared to this gentleman.

My colleague, who for the purpose of this narrative shall be known as DK, was a man of keen intellect and great ability. However, DKs approach to nature consisted, in equal parts, of misery and suffering.

In as much as that a certain amount of pain was a requisite qualification of nature experiences, we agreed. But, while I saw it as a means, for DK, it was an end.

DK measured experiences in kilometres, more being better than fewer. The same applied to elevation scaled, summits reached, and the number of consecutive days sleeping on rocky surfaces.

The only indicator where lower was better was the weight of his backpack. To that end, DK had taken, among others, the unprecedented step of shortening the handle of his toothbrush.

Having combed the Emirates for promising hikes, we found one named the ‘Stairway to Heaven’ in the northern Emirate of Ras al Khaimah. This walk was both long, steep and strenuous, and thus instantly ticked off three of DK’s requirements.

Peculiarly, this walk started in the UAE but ended in Oman. That made it necessary to return by the same route to avoid an uncomfortable run-in with the Royal Omani Police.

As luck had it, though, the walk proved a good deal more complicated than we had anticipated, and the judiciary never became involved.

Boulders the size of houses lay piled where our guide book assured us was a ‘good path’. Our regard for the Emirati goatherd of yesteryear skyrocketed as we slowly scrambled upwards.

After three hours, we had not yet reached an exceptionally steep scree-slope that was described as the ‘real’ start of the walk. The only end within sight was that of our water rations.

DK, for his part, held thirst to be an added bonus to any experience and was unmoved. But, reflecting on the bureaucracy that would follow from my demise on the mountain, he reluctantly agreed to strike a return.

It had been a good day in the mountains.

Norwegians are obsessed with heat, sunshine and warm water, concepts of which we have only fleeting knowledge. As a nation, we have convinced ourselves that there is such a thing as summer. Our capacity for self-deceit runs deep.

The modern Emirati is subject to the same weakness as the Norwegian. But, feeling that his quota of sunshine and heat is abundantly satisfied, the Emirati instead is obsessed with his rivers—or more appropriately his lack thereof.

Upon entering a government office in the Emirates, I was surprised to see a map almost entirely covered in blue stripes. Enquiring what these might be, I was told with great confidence and even greater indignation that these were ‘wadis’—seasonal rivers.

It is conceivable that there existed someone who knew less of Arabic geography than me at the time. Still, it would have taken time and determination to find such an individual.

As only the truly ignorant can, I revelled in my own incompetence. I roared with laughter at this wishful thinking on the part of the Emiratis. Rivers in Arabia—huh!

But the wadi played a significant role in society. Curiously and wonderfully, wadis were prime destinations for picnics. And out of a sheer fascination with the unusual idea of seeking out a dry river bed and taking my lunch there, I gradually came to adopt the Emiratis appreciation.

I privately kept making fun of the rivers, though. That is… until it rained.

Now, rain is not an everyday incident in the Emirates. The first two or three times it occurred, it offered little to broaden my mind concerning the wadis. A few measly drops breached the fine coat of dust on my car, and that was it.

In Norway, it could start to rain ANY day of the year, and continue uninterrupted for two weeks or more. The sort of rain that fell on the Emirates wouldn’t register by my measures.

Or so I thought until it really rained.

In mere hours, then, the wadis on which I had heaped so much scorn, turned into mighty rivers as advertised.

Lesson learned