Walking with Words

Drenched in materials of modesty I move slowly through the dunes of Dubai. Pulling my feet through the thick golden sand, like pulling a spoon through syrup. Beat. The sun leaks down on me in a chauvinistic fashion. A grounding reminder of natures place in the food chain. The sand eats me up to my ankles. The Midas touched landscape stretches out beyond me. Skin shines with sweat; the desert parches us of external superiority. A breeze meets my face and cheekily grabs the corner of my hat, trying to peel it from my head. Like nature stripping me back; removing unnecessary boundaries. Authorising autonomous adventure. Layers of sand fold onto each other, smoothly tailored by the spatula hand of the wind. Carving millions of disobedient particles into harmonic ridges. I dig my fingers into the grains beneath me. I pick up two handfuls and let it cascade back like dry waterfalls through the spaces between my fingers. I watch the dunes form and reform in front of me. No two winds ever the same, no two days ever the same, no two people exactly the same. And I wonder how I ended up here. A local man sits beside me. He squints his eyes and traces the ridges of the dunes with his knobbly finger. I follow. Up and down. He points to his heart. Then moves his fingers in the same pattern. Explaining wordlessly to me an Arabic tale; the dunes are the life of the city - their rolling ridges imitating that of a beating heart. He smiles and says to me as he leaves, “Only three things are certain. Birth, death and change.” I ponder this in the 43 degree heat, likening the ever changing convexities of sand to the ever changing complexities of life. In the distance I see a shadowed skyline. A large needle building stands in an orthostatic manner, expecting attention. I’ve separated myself from the tour group but can hear the muffled traveller chat. I recline right back into the sand now. Sloping my body down the opposing face so it supports me at a comfortable angle. I lay still and enjoy a warm breath. The desert air hits the back of my throat sharp and warming as whiskey. I look up at the roof of the world. Black, adorned with silver. I imagine the stars in the night sky being thousands of woman’s eyes sparkling out from behind a giant burka; mirroring the enigma of the world around us. Reminding me not just to look, but to see. Then it will become clear how I got here; and perhaps even why.