Dune Bashing

“Come, come. Let me show you. …Do you want to go?”

 “Yes!” I sprang, as he ambled out of the Polaris we just watched nimbly slide down the steepest dune-side in the Liwa desert and come to a stop next to our picnic pergola.

My friends had brought me all the way out into the Arabian Desert from Abu Dhabi- a 4+ hour drive - to be able to see dunes. Real dunes. BIG DUNES. And we had been watching the buggies fly up and down the sand intently as we picnicked at the base of the Moreeb Dune. It is one of the largest sand dunes in the world, nicknamed “Scary Mountain” due to its steep slope and sharp incline. 

That's not a dune...

These guys were clearly professionals. Locals, who could read the topography, were well versed in handling a vehicle in the deep, soft sands, and who were here pushing the limits of physics having fun, while other 4x4s carted tours and sightseers on smaller slopes nearby.  

I waited for him to extend his hand first before I offered mine in return. 

A routine I had become accustomed to during my time in the Middle East. Men and women aren’t allowed to touch in public here. 

“Looks fun!”

“It is very fun, I will show you.” He leans down to say hello to the youngest member of our party, showcasing his friendliness. “We were just leaving, actually” my friend offers, knowing that the sun is setting and we have a long drive ahead to get back in time for my flight tonight. 

“No, no! Come now, where are you from? First time? Oh, America! We can go up. Up, Up, and over! Far! I will take you. You will see.”

My westernized wariness awoke. Who is this guy? Does he want us to pay him for a tour? Is he charging for rides to the top? How far is far? Would I end up, quite literally, deserted? I look to my friend and try to gauge how I should react, and in doing so, probably share a glimpse of the adventurous little girl all but jumping up and down inside me, pleading for permission to go. 

“How much time will it take?” 

“Free! It is free. No problem!” The man overlaps with his answer, looking like an Arab-take on an X-Games contestant in a Supreme knit beanie and camo face sock with dark sunglasses and a bright yellow Diesel t-shirt. 

“Okay, but how long?”

“Ten minutes? Just up? We will go around…” He gestures high and off into the distance. We are standing in the only semblance of civilization there is for miles, (like, hundreds of them) which consists of a few unoccupied buildings, things under construction on the outskirts of primitive parking lots and large, empty racetracks. It is new, in preparation for a festival of races that takes place here. It looks a little like abandoned desert Nascar. None of it was here 2 years ago. There were barely road signs on how to get here just 4 years ago. 

“You want to?” My friend poses to me, more of a confirmation than a question. I nod. “Okay. She wants to. You go. We will stay here.” 

“O.K.!” The man exclaims as he gestures to the back seat of the 4-wheeler, offering it to them a final time. 

“We go.” He says to me decidedly as he opens the passenger door, then latches and clasps me into the most intense of safety harnesses. I’ve ridden in Ken Block’s CanAm (he’s a precision racecar driver) and even that only has buckles…

I mash the auto-start on my GoPro as soon as the door clicks closed. (Thank you, @JustinJenny)

He hits the gas, gunning the sand-crawler for as fast and as long as possible until the dune becomes so steep he has to break into an arc to keep moving forward. There is a ridge where he is able to crest and double back to continue the climb over a trail of dips and curves which provide enough traction to drive onwards and upwards. 

The higher we climb, the farther I can see, and as we approach the peak, in an instant the dune drops away and the horizon opens to a sea of sand, posed in choppy waves until eventually evading the sun’s reach. 

As we crested the dune, tipping over to the other side, more rovers and men appeared there. Some were dressed in traditional Arab smocks and headwear, some in street clothes, some in a combination of both – a sporty outdoors jacket cinched over a long robe and sandals, goggles perched atop his headscarf. 

My chaperone curved a wide path around the very edge of a plateau, unbothered by earth falling away however steeply on the other side. He slid to a stop and hopped out. I was reticent to exit the vehicle as they gathered, but also clamoring to feel the sand and see the view from 985ft. He helped release me and I went to stand at the apex of the dune we had just scaled. More men arrived, one from some hidden path below, with a teenage boy in tow. Another rushing up toward the rim of the dune as I was ogling the unbelievable view from the top, thus inciting shouts and warnings for me to move out of his way. They can’t dare let off the gas, I knew, or they would go tumbling back down like a pebble. They have to rely on momentum and propulsion and prayer to make it the last part of the way. I scurried and he came ambling to a stop right where I had been standing.

The men descended on me in turn, making introductions…some offering handshakes, some not, some keeping their distance and observing from afar. Where was I from? Where was I visiting? How had I gotten here? Why…?

I explained and made a point to reiterate my friends who, microscopic below, were waiting for me. I forcibly swallowed my uneasiness and, while acutely aware of my surroundings, simultaneously marveled at them. Large rose-colored dunes extended in every direction, the setting sun intensifying their soft velvety slopes and dappled shadows, as far as the eye could see. 

It was only from there could you really begin to see how the desert works. 
Have you ever seen a fine dusting of sand or snow get taken by the wind and swept across a blank slate? It gathers in ripples and ridges, fine lines and inexplicable precise patterns form over sidewalks and asphalt. The desert is the same, just bigger. Much, much bigger. Wisps of sand form nerve endings on top of veins on top of ripples on top of swells on top of waves on top of bigger waves become dunes become mountains; pockets and plains drop to the surface like craters. To see it you must zoom out to a god’s perspective, yet it is shown to us even in the smallest form. And like the tides, it is always moving, grains at a time. 

My driver snatched my camera from my hands and went about taking photos of me as I gazed at the awesomeness of it all. 

One of the men in full traditional garb, sand goggles, and bare feet had divulged that he split his time between Los Angeles and Abu Dhabi and made topical inside jokes while describing the landscape. He followed as I walked the perimeter of the small plateau to take pictures, and plopped down to sit in the sand, seemingly amused at me, eager to converse in English. He asked where I had been traveling before coming to the United Arab Emirates. When I replied “Riyadh, Saudi Arabia” his posture changed in surprise. His expression became quizzical and he looked at me like some kind of totem. 

“And? Did you ever expect you would be able to go in Saudi? You… like this?” He tossed a hand at me, up and down, vaguely. The other men laugh. 

I know what he means. 

I am in loose, dark jeans, and a t-shirt layered with a long-sleeved baggy button-down. Far from salacious, yet, still unorthodoxly progressive. Golden hair, uncovered, pulled into a windswept ponytail. Sunglasses shield my light eyes. 

But mostly, I am a woman. A white woman. Alone. 

“No” I reply emphatically, indicating I am familiar with this line of questioning. 

“Not in a million years!” another man retorts. 

We discussed some of the overlying preconceived notions that surround the country and, more revealing, the impressions of those perceptions. I reaffirmed my awareness and agreement and tell them I had a wonderful and welcoming experience, but am headed home now. 

“They are a great country. Saudis are very nice. Well educated. You will have to come back.” the man says from his perch in the sand. 

I know what he is really saying. “It’s changing. It’s not like people think. See? Now, You have to tell them.”

I agree, thank them, and tell them again that I really must be going, I have a flight to catch, the running Polaris awaits... 

Strapped back into the passenger seat, we take one more loop around the bank before tipping over the peak and stopping nose-down on the steep side of the dune, the 50-degree slope sliding me forward in the seat so that I rest in the harness. My new friend grabs my GoPro and flips it to film my reaction at clinging to the face of “scary mountain”. Not his first rodeo. I laugh as we coast down gracefully, accelerating onto the tarmac as my waiting friends also film our arrival. True to his word, the whole thing took just over 10 minutes. 

I thank him profusely and we are on the way, back through the desert, which I have an entirely new perspective and appreciation for. Much like the region in which it resides. Much like myself, navigating it. 

Grateful for yet another once in a lifetime happenstance experience that pushed me further out of my comfort zone and further into awareness and connection. 

Like the dunes, times and minds are changing.



Cut a lil' video for you visual learners who like to live vicariously. I suggest you watch it full screen with the sound on.
Enjoy, let me know what you think, and please continue the conversation. 

I, sadly, do not own the rights to Baba O'Riley and attribute credit for artistic use of this song, along with many other things, to The Who.