066 - 067 CYCLE TOURING THE UAE & OMAN

From Skyscrapers to Sand Dunes: My Two‑Country Desert Ramble

THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES & OMAN

548 Kilometres – 20 Days

2 February - 22 February 2015

MAP

PHOTOS - Oman

PHOTOS - UAE

FLIP-BOOK

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UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  

Prelude

The United Arab Emirates was never on my list of “places I absolutely must cycle through before I die,” mostly because I assumed it consisted entirely of skyscrapers, shopping malls, and people who could buy and sell me before breakfast. But travel has a way of nudging one into unexpected corners of the world, and so I found myself flying into Dubai at an hour normally reserved for insomniacs and international criminals. What followed was a whirlwind of glittering towers, gold‑laden souqs, improbable gardens, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally become royalty. It was dazzling, bewildering, occasionally exhausting—and, as always, far more entertaining than anything I could have planned.

 

THE EMIRATE OF DUBAI

 

Arrival at the Hour of the Undead

There are few things more disorienting than landing in Dubai at 3 a.m., a time of day normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people making life‑altering mistakes on the Internet. My flight from Cape Town via Doha was uneventful, unless you count the slow erosion of one’s will to live that accompanies long‑haul travel.

Mercifully, Anton and Andre—friends of my friend Lois, who lived in Oman—rescued me from the airport. Without them, I would’ve been forced to confront Dubai’s prices, which are so astronomical they should really be listed on the stock exchange.

We chatted until 5 a.m., which is the hour when even owls start thinking about bed. Then we collapsed into sleep, grateful for friendship, hospitality, and the absence of hotel bills.

 

Dubai: Where Everything Is the Biggest, Shiniest, and Most Likely to Bankrupt You

We emerged late, blinking like moles. Dubai, the UAE’s glittering metropolis, is essentially what happens when a city is given unlimited money and told to go wild. Everything is the biggest in the world—shopping centres, aquariums, egos.

We took a water bus around the marina, which felt like a gondola designed by someone who thought Venice lacked ambition. Then we wandered through the Dubai Mall, the Gold Souk, and an aquarium so large it probably has its own weather system.

We enjoyed lunch beside the dancing fountains, which performed enthusiastically against the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa—the tallest building in the world at the time and possibly visible from Mars.

We ended the day with a 3D movie, popcorn, and wine.

 

Souqs, Skyscrapers, and the Reassembly of a Bicycle

I woke earlier, though “earlier” is relative when one only finishes breakfast at half‑past eleven. I reassembled my bicycle, a task that always feels like performing delicate surgery with the wrong tools.

We visited a bike shop for bits and bobs, then wandered through Souq Madinat Jumeirah, a place where gold, spices, and tourists mingle in equal measure. Lunch at the Noodle House came with a view of the Burj Al Arab, a hotel shaped like a sail and priced like a small nation.

Later, we visited Elvira, who lives in an 83‑storey building. From the top, Dubai stretched out like a futuristic Lego set built by a child with unlimited bricks. We ate pizza and socialised, which is the correct way to spend time in a city where everything else costs the GDP of a medium‑sized island.

 

Miracle Gardens and Palm‑Shaped Questionable Decisions

We spent another day exploring Dubai, beginning with the Miracle Garden—a place so improbable it feels like someone tried to outwit nature and succeeded. Buildings covered entirely in flowers, in a desert. It’s the botanical equivalent of a magic trick.

Next came Palm Island, the world‑famous palm‑shaped development where accommodation is so expensive you need a financial advisor just to look at it. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t the ideal place to be during a tsunami, but perhaps that’s not mentioned in the brochures.

Lunch at Carluccio’s restored my faith in Italian cuisine, and then we boarded a driverless metro train. It whisked us off to the Spice and Gold Souq, proving that Dubai trusts robots more than I trust myself with a toaster.

We ended the day at Carrefour, gathering ingredients for Anton’s traditional Uzbek plov (or palov). It was the perfect end to yet another day in a city that seems determined to out‑glitter the rest of the planet.

 

THE EMIRATE OF ABU DHABI

The Great Escape

After several days of Dubai’s relentless shininess, I was delighted to be back on my bicycle. There’s nothing quite like pedalling off in a direction you’re not entirely sure about—it’s freedom with a hint of mild panic.

Anton and Andre had been wonderfully generous, but their warnings about Dubai’s drivers lingered ominously. Surprisingly, motorists slowed down and waved me across busy highways, possibly out of sheer astonishment at seeing a woman cycling in the UAE.

The road to Abu Dhabi was a dead‑straight, mind‑numbing four‑lane highway. Petrol stations became my entertainment, and I stopped at every single one, chatting with travellers who inevitably asked where I was from and where I was going. Then came the photo shoots—because apparently a lone cyclist is more exciting than the Burj Khalifa.

I reached Rahba (not sure if that was the name of a town) at sunset and found a room that was costly but convenient—Dubai’s influence clearly extends beyond its borders.

 

Rahba to Abu Dhabi: A Short Ride and Unexpected Police Escort

The ride into Abu Dhabi was shorter than expected, but the city had one last surprise for me. My route spat me out into the fast lane of a busy highway, leaving me stranded like a bewildered chicken. The police eventually helped me across, and two kind Samaritans gave me a lift into town. The police only left once they saw me safely inside the car, presumably relieved they wouldn’t have to scrape me off the motorway.

My phone’s GPS refused to work without a local SIM card, so I hunted one down. Dinner was falafel and samosas for a few dirhams—proof that not everything in the UAE requires a trust fund.

 

Abu Dhabi to Ramah: Mosques and Monotony

I stopped at the magnificent Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque for photos, then pointed my bicycle toward Oman. I planned to cycle halfway to the border, but camping spots were non-existent unless one enjoys sleeping on gravel beside a highway.

Service stations once again became my lifeline—water, snacks, and the comforting illusion of civilisation. I arrived at the Ramah rest area long after sunset, guided by the solar‑powered flashing light Andre had gifted me. It switched on automatically in low light, making it far more intelligent than I am after a long day of cycling.

 

Wind, Date Palms, and Camel Markets

The ride to Al Ain was straight into the wind, which is nature’s way of reminding cyclists who’s in charge. Even the service stations had given up and no longer sold snacks. Then, out of nowhere, a stranger stopped and handed me a small souvenir. I was so surprised I’m not sure I even thanked him properly.

Al Ain appeared around midday, a welcome oasis town with shady date palms and ancient irrigation systems. The Al Ain Oasis offered a maze of cobbled streets and nearly 150,000 date palms—excellent for wandering, less excellent for navigation.

I visited the Palace Museum, the old fort, and Al Jahili Fort, built in 1891 as a summer residence for Sheikh Zayed the First. Apparently, escaping coastal humidity was a tradition long before air‑conditioning.

Carrefour provided supplies, and the nearby camel market provided entertainment. Dinner was falafel and samosas for the third night running. At this point, I was practically chickpea‑powered.

 

OMAN

Prelude

There are countries one drifts into gently, like slipping into a warm bath. And then there is Oman, which I entered in my usual fashion: late, slightly disorganised, and already behind schedule. I had been promised mountains, deserts, camels, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into a fairy tale. What I didn’t expect was how quickly Oman would charm me—wind, heat, border oddities and all. It was a place where ancient traditions met modern kindness, and where every day seemed to offer something quietly extraordinary. Or loudly extraordinary, depending on how close one stood to a turtle.

 

Into Oman, Eventually

Some days one springs out of bed, ready to conquer mountains. Other days one stares at the tent ceiling wondering why bicycles exist. This was the latter. By the time I’d packed up and coaxed myself into motion, it was already past 10 a.m.

The Omani border was a mere 10 kilometres away—a gentle roll through Al Ain. On the Omani side, I performed the usual traveller’s ritual: ATM, breakfast, SIM card. By the time I actually entered Oman, it was noon, and I had achieved approximately nothing.

The road into the Hajar Mountains shimmered like a mirage, and the scenery consisted of barren mountains, desert, and camels who looked at me with the pity only camels can muster. Oddly, the real Omani border was another 50 kilometres further, making the entire stretch a sort of diplomatic no‑man’s land. I half expected tumbleweed to ask for my passport.

Once stamped in, I filled my water bottles and headed for the hills. The wind blew, but in a strangely peaceful way—like nature whispering, “You chose this, remember?”

Darkness fell soon after sunset, but to my delight, streetlights lined the entire road. Oman, it seemed, was determined to illuminate my suffering.

Sobar appeared unexpectedly large, chaotic, and full of roadworks. A taxi driver pointed me toward a nameless hotel, which suited me perfectly. I cooked pasta in the room—an act of culinary violence I regretted immediately. I should’ve stuck with falafel.

 

The Lure of Cold Beer

My friend Lois had arranged to meet me at the Millennium Resort for a drink. The promise of a cold beer is a powerful motivator, and I pedalled into the wind with the determination of a woman who has suffered one too many bowls of terrible pasta.

I crawled into the resort shortly after 6 p.m., wind‑blown and mildly dehydrated. Lois was already there, and to my utter delight, she had organised a room. A luxury room. Overlooking the Gulf of Oman. It’s good to have friends—especially ones who understand the emotional importance of beer.

We babbled for hours, catching up on years of life, travel, and questionable decisions. Then we retreated to our plush room, where I slept like someone who had cycled 113 kilometres for a drink.

 

A Day of Leisurely Sightseeing

We began the day with a massive breakfast overlooking the Gulf of Oman—one of those breakfasts that makes you question why you ever eat anything else.

Lois persuaded me to load the bike into her car and join her for a sightseeing trip to Muscat. I agreed instantly; I am not above cheating when mountains are involved.

Our first stop was Al Sawadi, a beautiful beach where boats ferried people to a nearby island for a day of leisure. From there, we drove to Barka, hoping to witness the famous bull‑butting. Sadly, the bulls had other plans and wouldn’t be performing until much later.

Lunch was deliciously Arabic, and then we continued to Seeb, where Lois lived. My bicycle, meanwhile, enjoyed its day off.

 

Muscat: Mountains, Mud‑Brick Villages, and Turtles

Lois hauled me out of bed and announced we were driving up a mountain. The views were spectacular—hazy landscapes stretching into forever—and I was profoundly grateful to be in a car rather than pedalling up it like a lunatic.

A steep walk down brought us to an abandoned village clinging to the mountainside, its mud‑brick houses still stubbornly intact. After a hot, sweaty climb back up, we rewarded ourselves with refreshments at an upmarket hotel overlooking tiny green terraces far below.

Next came Nizwa, reached via a nearly vertical mountain road. The fort was imposing, and the Souq was enormous—selling everything from vegetables to livestock, pottery, jewellery, and guns. It was the kind of place where you could buy a chicken, a teapot, and a firearm in one convenient transaction.

Back in Muscat, days drifted by in a haze of exotic dishes and sightseeing. The hop‑on‑hop‑off Big Bus tour was money well spent, and I even met another cyclist following the Oman Cycle Tour. Misery loves company.

On the 19th, Lois took the day off work, loaded the car, and we headed south along the coast. The desert landscape was dotted with unexpected gems.

First stop: Bimmah Sinkhole, also known as Hawiyat Najm or The Falling Star. Legend says a meteor created it. Experts say limestone dissolved. I know which version I prefer.

Next: Sur, home to traditional dhow‑building. No sketches, no blueprints—just craftsmen building boats the way their ancestors did. It was oddly comforting.

Our destination was Ras al‑Jinz, the famous turtle reserve. We stayed at a nearby hotel and walked to the beach at night. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t giant prehistoric turtles hauling themselves ashore like weary dinosaurs.

We watched them dig metre‑deep holes, lay around 100 perfect golf‑ball eggs, then cover everything meticulously. Then they dug a fake hole to confuse predators—turtles are apparently smarter than most politicians.

In the morning, we returned to the beach and saw newly hatched turtles scurrying toward the water. It was magical. Thank you, Lois.

After breakfast, we headed inland, stopping at a wadi high in the mountains for lunch. Then we continued to a beautiful desert camp nestled among magnificent dunes—a rustic haven in the arid landscape.

 

Farewell to Oman

All too soon, it was time to return to Muscat. I packed my belongings, and Lois drove me to the airport for my flight to Sri Lanka. On the way, we stopped for one last memorable meal: a camel‑meat burger. A first for me. Surprisingly tasty. Possibly life‑changing.

I couldn’t thank Lois enough. She showed me more of Oman than I ever could’ve seen alone—and paid for everything. I will forever be indebted to her generosity, hospitality, and impeccable timing.

 

Epilogue

Oman slipped away far too quickly, like a good book you wish had a few more chapters. One moment I was wandering through souqs and watching turtles perform their prehistoric rituals, and the next I was packing my panniers and eating a camel‑meat burger on the way to the airport. Thanks to Lois—who fed me, housed me, chauffeured me, and generally ensured I didn’t perish in the desert—I saw more of the country than I ever could have managed alone. Oman left me sun‑kissed, well‑fed, and slightly in awe of turtles, mountains, and the improbable kindness of friends. Sri Lanka awaited, but a part of me stayed behind among the dunes.