Denise in Abu Dhabi

A story. True.

Ka-chunk. The stamp drops and returns. Swift. Decisive. 

Accepted. 

I smile at the bored-looking customs officer and tuck my passport into my backpack. Zip slides closed under my fingers.

Dark chocolate eyes drift over my head to the next person in line. 

I look down, pull the strap of my guitar case onto my shoulder, scurry past. 

My guitar swings awkwardly, bumping my hip with each step.

What next?

Left luggage. Where is it? An icon of a suitcase?

No one makes eye contact. Two employees lean against a wall and talk quietly to each other. 

I walk through heavy swinging doors. The temperature rises a degree or two. My name’s not on a plaque. Carry on. I’m in a corridor filled with ladders and tape, blocking off gaping holes in the walls.

Be brave.

I approach a uniformed man.

“Is there somewhere to leave my things?” I exaggerate my movement. Point at the soft black case holding the instrument.

“No.” He shakes his head sharply. “Still being built.” No sympathy. No emotion at all.

I nod. I smile. I walk outside.

I wilt.

OK.

Guitar on back. Day pack on front. Straighten all the straps and square my shoulders.

Sixteen hours until the next flight.

Don’t waste it.

Don’t get a hotel room.

Walk.

Where?

I find a bus.

Hope it will take me downtown. It does.

I stare out the window like a tourist. Eyes wide. Childlike excitement. Everything new and different.

Buildings like grey and beige boxes. Not many people.

Where to get off? Nothing looks welcoming so far. But what if I get to the end of the line and get lost? Quiet brain, I whisper inwardly. Still fifteen and a half hours to go. No rush.

Then I see this:

I’m pretty sure it’s the Presidential Palace.

The bus turns away from it and crosses a bridge. I stare at it getting further away. Can tourists go there? I don’t know. No one seems to be going in or out.

I get off the bus. The palace is far.

The inside of my nostrils are baking.

I turn in the other direction and walk towards the water.

I find this:

Tourists can definitely go there. I get my ticket and ask if I can leave my bags at reception.

Yes, but no one will watch them.

OK.

I leave the guitar and pull my pack onto my back.

I wander around, enjoying myself despite the heat because my load is lighter and I’m learning. It’s about history, geography, people, stuff like that. 

Nice.

I buy juice. I sit.

I get my stuff and leave.

I walk. 

Across the bridge. 

The sun stings. My shoulders ache. I stop and breathe. 

I stare at the water.

What am I going to do? Sit down here and wait to be rescued? No one’s coming. Cars growl behind me and the water laps the bases of the bridge pylons. I look into the distance and see this:

Getting there takes at least a thousand years.

No rush. Still nine and a half hours to get back to the airport.

The water is clear. Calm. Inviting. I need to get in.

I’m supposed to cover everything up to and including my hair, but I don’t care. Any desire to adhere to local culture has melted.

No one is around except a lifeguard sitting in a tower. I take the sarong I’ve been using to cover my head, wrap it around myself, and change into a two-piece bathing suit.

He climbs down.

I smile and ask him to watch my things for me.

He nods without smiling. Says something official-sounding. He’s young. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He looks at me, then looks away.

I tuck my bag behind my guitar next to the leg of the tower and stride into the water.

It’s a bath. 

I float on my back. Nothing but blue above.

I want to be a respectful tourist. I’m not doing it right. Betrayed by my second X chromosome.

I don’t care. I don’t check if the guard is watching me.

I do care.

I’m embarrassed by my skin. My thighs. My stomach.

My hair spreading around my head like snakes.

It’s not refreshing. I lie on the sand to dry in the shade of his tower, then get changed and tuck my hair back into the wet sarong.

What to do? 

I walk. And walk. And walk. And walk.

I force my eyes wide. Take it in. You’ve only got one day, perhaps ever, in this place.

My shoulders ache. Legs losing strength.

I find a shopping center.

I have lunch.

I find a massage parlor.

How much? You know what? Fine. One hour.

Hands on my skin. Guess it’s OK in a dimly-lit room that smells of incense.

Six hours to go.

Might as well go back to the airport. Start to walk.

I don’t know how to get there. How much will a taxi cost? Where’s the bus? I can’t think straight. Might melt onto the concrete. The water and the massage are like distant memories of something awkward but nice. I want to cry.

A black van slows next to me. I look down.

A woman’s voice.

“Hey! Get in!”

I look up. Her head is covered in black cloth. She holds the steering wheel and smiles. A teenager holds the back door open.

…

I get in the van.

“What are you doing walking around in this heat?” she asks.

“I’m sightseeing,” I say with a smile. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“It’s too hot.” She shakes her head. “I’m glad we found you.”

We make eye contact. Hers are almost black and surrounded by thick eyeliner. Her lips are plump and pink. Skin like caramel.

“What’s your name?” she says.

“Denise.”

She introduces herself and her daughter. Her daughter’s head is covered too. She takes me home. They both remove the scarves and reveal thick black long hair.

Her house is cool. Thick walls. The room on the ground floor has mats, no chairs, no couches. She goes to the base of the stairs and calls out in Arabic.

Two younger girls descend.

They ask me to play. I pull out the guitar and sit on the mat and they stare at me with wide, curious eyes.

Their mother comes back with tea.

We talk.

She tells me how recent it is that she’s been able to drive, but how much it’s improved her life. Her husband is at work and won’t be back until the evening. She can’t work.

I tell her about my day and where I’ve come from and where I’m going.

She asks me to read in English to the children so I do. I ask them to teach me some words in Arabic.

We play games.

When it’s time to catch my plane, they all come. The mother and oldest daughter have their headscarves back in place. She drives me right up to the front door and they kiss my cheeks before waving goodbye.

I leave the UAE.

I don’t remember her name. I don’t have any photos. I wish I could say thank-you again.