The Desert Road

3 min read1 day ago

From Dubai, the approach to Abu Dhabi never stirred the imagination. Even now, when I close my eyes, I see only sand — dunes rising and collapsing upon themselves like a tired sea turned to stone. For long stretches there was nothing to interrupt the eye, nothing by which to measure progress. One began to doubt distance itself.

The stretch was said to be about one hundred miles — one hundred and sixty or seventy kilometres — but the figure meant little. In those years there was no grand highway sweeping across the Emirates with confidence. The road was narrow, exposed, almost tentative in its claim upon the desert. A ribbon of bitumen laid down with hope rather than certainty. The journey took two hours, sometimes more, depending on the temperament of the driver and the mood of the sand.

I travelled in a shared taxi, a cream-coloured Peugeot 504 wagon whose paint had faded unevenly under the sun. It had the weary look of an underfed camel prepared to carry one burden too many. For twenty-five dirhams the fare was cheap, and cheapness explained much. Seven passengers were pressed into the vehicle, besides the driver. I was one of the two “privileged” to sit in front, wedged between the driver and another man, my shoulders touching both. The engine heat rose through the floor and scorched my feet. I could not stretch my legs; I could not even fold them. The discomfort was constant and intimate.

The driver played a Sufi cassette at high volume, the singer’s lament rising above the rattle of the vehicle. Behind us, the passengers spoke loudly in Hindi, their voices competing with the music and with one another. Their laughter was sudden, expansive, unselfconscious. The oblique rays of the late afternoon sun entered through the windscreen and side windows, burning our faces and hands. Sweat gathered and had nowhere to evaporate. There was no air-conditioning; one travelled with the windows lowered, inviting in more heat than relief.

Outside, the desert revealed little variety. A solitary camel might appear, motionless and contemplative, as if puzzled by the intrusion of this road. More often there were burnt-out car carcasses by the roadside, their blackened frames bleaching under the sun — reminders of misjudgment and haste. Occasionally a truck thundered past, driven by Punjabi men whose journeys seemed longer than the road itself. Beyond that, only clusters of dunes and the suggestion of distant sandstorms, as though the desert were gathering its patience.

Halfway through, we stopped at a tea stall — a low structure of corrugated iron offering shade and sweet tea boiled in dented kettles. Everyone descended gratefully. There were no toilets. There were no women travelling alone in these taxis; one did not see them on this road.

The men walked behind the stall in a quiet, practised manner. They squatted discreetly, preserving modesty in a way that was clearly learned and shared. Afterwards, they cleansed themselves with sand and small stones — a discipline shaped by faith and habit. I did not know how to follow their method. I stood apart, awkward, conscious of my difference in small but revealing ways.

When we climbed back into the Peugeot, resignation settled upon me. The men’s conversation resumed, louder now, as though to outrun the silence outside. The taxi gathered speed. The sun lowered but did not soften. I looked ahead at the suffering faces reflected faintly in the windscreen and then at the desert stretching before us — endless, indifferent.

It was not simply a journey measured in kilometres. The emptiness lengthened time itself. Between Dubai and Abu Dhabi in those years, the desert still belonged to itself, and we passed through it as temporary intruders, sealed in a rattling car, carrying our small discomforts across its vast and ancient quiet.

Dubai

Abu Dhabi

Desert