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Escaping the oppressive heat of Dubai becomes a vital challenge after you have spent a month there during the dog days of summer. An obvious relief is to confine oneself to the restaurants, malls and hooka joints that are kept at a comfortable temperature. But, this prohibits exploring the country. Sure I could have driven everywhere in an air-conditioned car and never ventured out. But that would have been like going to the local zoo and telling people you went to the African savanna.
I was stationed in Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates (U.A.E.), on a work project at an oil refinery in July with a co-worker, Peter. Peter had thin, ash-brown hair and a pea-shaped head. He was my height with a slight build. He was easily amused; whenever he cracked one of his ear-to-ear smiles his eyes retracted to the size of a pumpkin seed. Most importantly, he was a willing adventurer, a sign-me-up kind of guy.
The startling number of new building constructions in Dubai along with the accompanying noise added to the suffocating heat. Add the stress level of the job and I was on the edge of insanity. “I got to get out of here!” I often told Peter.
Then, I learned through various means; entrepreneurial travel agencies and chatty engineers that a short drive east could lead to open-air satisfaction. The Hajar Mountains, which straddled the border of U.A.E. and Oman, offered a respite from the blanketed heat of Dubai. The air there was cooler and less humid. Within the mountain range were natural springs embedded in canyons. Peter and I decided to head to one called Hatta Springs.
One Saturday afternoon, Peter and I ventured east out of Dubai. We already had a Toyota Camry, an ordinary 4-cylinder rental. The travel agency within our hotel recommended that we rent a four-wheel drive vehicle, as the road to the springs was hilly and rocky. But, we didn’t want to go through the hassle of renting another vehicle and I was too anxious to get out of town.
So on a Saturday afternoon we took off in the Camry and headed east. Dubai’s downtown business district with its famous skyscrapers faded behind us, and we quickly realized what a desert oasis it was. The land became a brown wasteland. Some shrubs and desert plants sprouted in random locations along the side of the road, but for the most part the terrain was lifeless.
The flat landscape continued when we reached the border with Oman. I was psyched about entering a new country, a new landscape. Squinting from the intense light, I was relieved to see only a welcome sign; no custom officials, no barriers. For a time, the new country looked exactly like the one we had left. Then, mountains started to appear in the distance. The dead, brown landscape gave way to hilly terrain, full of stones and weeds. Stunted desert trees, in clumps, fanned out at their top as if a giant hand were pushing down on them.
As Peter and I drove deeper into Oman, the mountains finally eclipsed us, and we were awed by the beauty of jagged peaks and their crimson hue. Browns and reds rushed us, casting our visual senses into overdrive. I rolled down the windows; the air that lazily filled the car was hot but dry, almost pleasant.
A wooden signpost declared in yellow letters that Hatta Springs was two kilometers ahead. Peter and I looked at each other in excitement. The next sign read ‘Hatta Springs exit 100m ahead’ with an arrow pointing to the left. The hills fanned out to our left and right. They looked like giant bunched-up red carpets with many peaks and valleys.
We took the exit off the comfortable highway onto a rocky, narrow road with jagged softball-sized rocks. The wheel groaned in displeasure and the car shook as it constantly shifted its balance. A pang of trepidation hit me.
“Are you sure we want to go ahead and do this?” Peter said.
“The hills seem to grow larger ahead.” “It was only suggested that we use a four-wheel drive,” I said. “It wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
“If something happens, there will be no one to help us. I haven’t seen another car for miles,” Peter said.
“If the road gets too rough, we can always turn back,” I said.
“I suppose,” Peter said nervously and half-giggling.
I was more worried about the car then I let on. Peter went quiet; his eyes were glued to the path immediately in front of the car. We were extra cautious; our car insurance didn’t cover us in Oman. We looked out tensely for possible debris that might puncture a tire or scratch the paint. With the numerous changes of direction we lost sense of where the highway was that we’d left. We risked being stranded in this unfamiliar, remote place.
The trail was erratic. We would descend 50 feet along one stretch only to rise another 70. One downward pitch was treacherously steep and I slowed the car to idling speed before inching forward. I tapped the brakes often to prevent the car from reaching a juggernaut speed. Towards the end of the descent I eased off the brake and floored the accelerator in preparation for climbing the equally steep ascent ahead. The car lost all forward momentum and Peter let out a yelp. “Yikes, we’re stuck!” he cried.
But, the wheels found traction and we lurched to the top and beyond. The car clanged and groaned speeding along now on a flatter surface. A parking lot came up finally on the left, and we pulled in and gave the car a well-deserved rest.
There were no signs, but we could see heads bobbing up and down, perhaps a half-mile away.
“What a ride!” I said. Peter said, “Let’s hope the car can make it on the way back.”
“I’ve taken such cars through worse conditions in the blizzards in Wisconsin,” I said. “You have to play with the brakes and accelerator with equal aggression- feel the wheels as if they are your legs.”
“It will be one dirty mother, though,” Peter muttered.
The sound of conversation grew louder as we approached the people we’d spotted. The trail wasn’t as precarious now, but still presented a challenge. Peter wore sandals and I had on sneakers. Hiking boots would have made the trek much more manageable. We clambered down hills trying to angle our bodies at the optimal position, to prevent loose rocks from pitching us downwards. I felt like I was on a surfboard. Going uphill we struggled to gain footing and feared getting twisted ankles.
The area was dry as a bone. I couldn’t imagine that there could be natural springs here. The mountains were bare, no snow-capped peaks. An underground water table must have surfaced, I presumed.
We panted as we struggled to overcome another steep hill. The voices of the unseen people began to separate into distinctive tones and pitch. Finally the terrain changed, we came upon a smooth ledge and a drop-off, and another ledge, smooth and dark gray. Beyond it, there was a gap in the front of the ledge, and it grew larger as we drew near. Here was a chasm that was twenty feet wide but extended left and right for a considerable distance. We peered down into it. About six feet down was a large shimmering pool of natural spring water. The water was a light green where the sun shone on the surface. Where the craggy cliff walls blocked the sun, the water was a murky brown. The voices we had heard were other tourists who had gathered at a place where the chasm opened up and the water was shallow. There were about eight of them standing up, frolicking in the water.
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I almost heard the water call out to me is if I were in a trance. I walked back and forth along the ledge until I found an outcropping of smooth rock that was closer to the surface of the water where I could ease my way in. I slipped a toe in the water, penetrating the glistening surface. The water was a perfect temperature, and I slid in my legs, my torso, and finally my whole body. It was wonderful; I felt the baptism of the water excite my every pore. The contrast between the hot, desert air and the cool water was titanic.
Peter joined me in the water. I splashed Peter by swinging my right arm in a circle along the surface of the water. Peter lamely jammed his palms into the water to counter my attack. Once comfortable with the depths, we took turns diving, first by a simple push off from the edge, and then with a running start. We laughed at the juvenile behavior the environment had drawn from us.
Two hours later, we reluctantly pulled ourselves out of the water and collapsed on our towels the smooth rock ledge. My skin tickled as the dry desert air rapidly absorbed the coalesced water on my skin. We gulped up the rays and reminisced about swimming adventures we had as kids.
“I remember in June of 1984 when our whole family went to Phoenix to visit my mom’s cousin.” “She had a swimming pool in her backyard, “ I told Peter. “The weather was similar to Dubai, although less humid,” I continued. “The first day in Phoenix, I swam for five hours straight. I’d never been to a pool before for my exclusive use and that was free. When I was finished my hair was white from the bleach and my skin was red as a lobster.” “My sunburn was so bad I couldn’t sleep for a week, “I recounted.
“Ah, yes,” Peter said lost in his own memories. “If you were lucky you got three good swimming months in the Midwest.” “When I was a kid, I rode my bike every day to the local swimming pool in Chicago,” he continued. “Whoever had the darkest tan by the time school started again seemed to have the most fun over the summer.”
We didn’t mention work or Dubai once during that perfectly spent afternoon. I forgot about my worries for an afternoon and I managed to get the car back to Dubai without getting stuck, though it was dusty and banged up. Unlike the car, I returned unscathed. I had a fresh mind and renewed vigor. I spent just one afternoon in Oman, but Hatta Springs provided a memorable elixir during a brutal Middle Eastern summer.
Copyright © 2009 Allen Rindfleisch
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