First Camping Trip: Day One

The weekend sneaked up on us when we would need to get our visas renewed for another thirty days so Debbie, Tara, Nick, and I packed up our bags, rented a tiny but reliable Toyota Yaris, and sped off for Oman. As usual, I fell asleep in the back of the car but soon we were at the border, hassling with the bureaucracy in getting our visas renewed. As usual, we did it wrong and ended up having to pay too much to get a renewal stamp that would let us stick around Dubai for another month. Once we’d finished wrestling  with red tape, it was time to plan our next move.

We settled on hiking to a wadi (oasis) and once again, I fell asleep until the car began rumbling over the rough road, signaling me that it was time to get up. We ate a quick lunch and then began our trek into the wild. To be perfectly honest, we had no idea where we were going. Having just read Jon Krakauer’s “Into the Wild”, my Boy Scouting knowledge of what a genuinely bad idea this was has been renewed. Alas, such things were not our concern at the time. Granted, we were in a semi-populated area and should things have taken a turn for the worse, we could have easily subsisted off of the multitude of goats running about. To the locals peering out windows and through cracks in fences, we must have looked like idiots. They’re not wrong. We are idiots.

Imagine you were a goatherder/farmer living and working in the backcountry of the UAE. You may go days at a time without seeing anyone except family and neighbors and then one day, that not-so-rare breed, the unmistakable tourist, wanders not only past your house but onto your property. He starts chasing your herd of goats. He’s talking in loud voices and sipping water out of a pretentious Camelbak. You roll your eyes and continue repairing your farming implements knowing that this is just another one who has strayed too far from the city.

One of the locals was kind enough to invite us in for tea as we wandered past. Moussa (as I will call him. His name escapes me now) spoke decent English, but it needed work (as does my Arabic) but the concept of sitting down for a drink is fairly universal and there was no confusion. All of us cross-legged, Moussa began pouring steaming cups of tea from an old thermos. In conversation, he only spoke to Nick and me, seeming to ignore Debbie and Tara. Nick asked what his job was. “Army,” Moussa replied. Nick continued, “What do you think of the protests going on in the Middle East?” His response was shrewd, “I don’t know what you mean. There are no protests”. The question, and then the answer, was repeated. Catching on to his tactic, I chuckled, looking to Nick to convey the joke. Soon we were all laughing and raising our cups of tea.

Before we left, our friend indicated that we should wait just one more moment. He ducked into the house and I immediately knew we were about to be bestowed with some gift. Encounters in Arabia typically go like this. The interchange is not complete without some exchange of tokens and this was shaping up to be no different. To my surprise, when Moussa emerged, he was holding… a rifle? “So this is how it goes,” I thought. “We stop for five minutes at the house of a man we’ve just met and now he is going to kill us”. The stupidity of it was laughable. Were we really that dumb? Was this decision to stop for a little Arabian hospitality the last one we’d ever make? Grinning, he loaded the weapon. This is it. Now it’s just a matter of who buys the farm first. 

The smile still pasted on his face, Moussa shoved the rifle into Nick’s hands. “Shoot”. As Nick examined the rifle, he repeated, “Shoot”. So Nick shot. The round went off with a crack and the sound echoed off the surrounding hills. Now Nick and Moussa smiled. It was my turn. I aimed at the hill that rose up in the distance and pulled the trigger. There was little kick and the report was just as loud as the first time, which wasn’t very loud at all. I handed it back to Moussa and picked my spent casing off the ground. In that brief moment, we had bonded. It was surprisingly fulfilling. Moussa trusted us and, despite my initial concern about his intentions, we trusted him.

We said goodbye to Moussa and headed back to the car to continue our adventure. The day went at its own pace and we drove all over the area, eventually stopping outside Fujeirah. The Lonely Planet book informed us that Friday’s featured bull-butting. Oblivious to what this entailed, exactly. We got curious and decided to watch. Essentially, bull-butting is the region’s version of a rodeo, only with one event. White-robed men drag immense beasts out toward one another in the middle of a dirt circle. There, the animals lower their head and do battle, mountain-goat style. Whichever creature backs down first concedes defeat and all the while, the crowd whistles and cheers, enthusiastic about the prospects of “their” bull. We managed to see about three of these competitions, the last one ending in the near-escape of one of the bulls. Before the duel could begin, it escaped the hold of its handlers and charged for the edge of the arena. In one tense moment, over-eager spectators who had actually entered the ring scrambled for safety on the opposite side of the railing. The beast closed in ferociously but slowed at the last seconds, apparently becoming disinterested with it attack.

The event concluded, we set out for dinner and after that, a place to camp. Following contradictory sets of directions, we eventually ended up in a sandy area on the edge of the region’s largest wildlife sanctuary. In keeping with Emirati standards about the outdoors (which is largely unprofitable) there were no permits or reservations needed and we pitched our tents where we pleased. The night was pleasant and we wiled it away talking and star gazing at the edge of the water that lapped in from the gulf. It was a much welcome change from the hustle and bustle of the city and even by morning, I was ready for more. 


Click here for pictures from the camping trip (photos 132 through 147).