Dune Crashing

Somebody actually said that dune crashing is known as an “Arabian Rollercoaster.” Well earth to whoever said that, you have never ridden Goliath. Because if you had, you would either be on your mobile calling your mama or up chucking the first pork hotdog you have ever eaten in of your life. With the sarcasm over with, dune crashing is cool. It is fun. With the front wheels in a hard right as the ass of the 8 cylinder Toyota Land Rover is dropping down to the right on a 60 degree dune with all 4 wheels half inflated digging to keep all 7 of us up right is an entirely different sensation. It is cool too. But the feeling of “oh shit, were gonna roll” is what is going through your mind.



This is the drill: They pick you up at home. You get in a 4x4 and head off to Hatta. (Almost Oman in an ocean of rolling dunes of flesh pink sand.)

Viviane and I joined 4 Indian people and rolled out toward Hatta. We stopped for “souvenirs” and water before we hit the sand. This is the best part: We pull off the road and the driver drops the air pressure by some undisclosed amount, and then he had to help ALL FOUR Indians put on their seat belts. Now understand none of these people were under the age of 40, but all of them had no idea how to wear a seat belt. Stop and breath and remember you don’t live in India. Now remember how it feels as an adult human to do 120 KPH without your seatbelt across your chest. Don’t know about you but I feel naked. Anyway, Grandma Indian woman literally required 5 MINUTES to put it on. It was insane. The whole idea of what to do if you pull the belt and it sticks vs. if you give it a little slack and pull again and it comes out of the magical slit in the side of car was an unknown reality of auto safety to this group. The dude had the belt under his arm. Who puts on his seatbelt and then puts his arm over the belt. Answer: Indians. It was rad. Thank God the driver spoke Hindi.

We went out in a group of three Land Rovers, which was good, others went out in a group of 15. At the top of the first dune we stopped, the driver hit the CD player and out of the speakers came Snoop Dogg “Let’s do this...” Chicka Chicka Chicka and we hit the sand.

Up and down, slippin’ and sliddin’ it was fun. Vivi and I were in the very back, we were picked up last. I did not really matter (except for the video quality.) We just went up and down and did a few dune donuts until we reached a protruding rock acme.

Once we got there it turned out to be a picnic of 50+ Land Rovers to watch the “sun set” and enjoy the cool winter (sandpaper hand dryer) breeze. I feared for my cameras life as I made a video, but I did it anyway in the bliss of being in the middle of nowhere and wanting to record it for history’s sake. Thank God I am delusional in these moments of emotional grandeur.



We re-entered out desert gondolas and roared away to the oasis. Upon arrival we found a BBQ, a Belly Dancer stage, shops, a bar, a dress up like an Emirate tent, and an Arabic skin painter. (Forgive me I forgot the name of this art form, and it might even be Indian, whatever.) Vivi did it hidden because her employer would do a back flip if it showed on her hands [where it should be].) And, just to answer the un-ask question it looks bitchen but it was not on the part of her body I would have chosen if were up to me. Which is was not.

Dinner was a feast. You got in line and before you hit the guys with the dead animal flesh at the end of the line you already have a plate of 3 continents or more of just stuff. (Made up primarily of the Arabia and the Asia sub-continent of India.) After all of that there is the standard 3-headed Kebab option (chicken, beef, lamb) with some other chard-to-death mammal limb without any hair on its chinny chin chin.



I pulled a few Shisha hits. So did Vivi, but she found it to be a non-enjoyable experience. I, on the other hand, found it quite nice. We walked away very early as far as I am concerned, but there were super hot belly dancer outfits to buy. So we did that. Oh baby.




The belly dancer was hot. She was good. She got the place united. She pulled us all together for the first time since we had all been roaming around as a bunch of rich Western tourist.



Oh yea. Before she came out and rocked we visited the “dress up like a local” tent. Viviane put on the full black thing. She was still hot (that is just me) but her eyes are killer, but wow it is such a new profile it is literally indescribable. No color, no shape, and no smile. It turned out to be not a mocking of culture but an education. If I spent all day with her in public in that thing and we went home and at some point I turned around to find her in a Brazilin Bikini I think I might have a few neurons fire uncontrollably to say the least. The good point is that at this point in time it happens anyway, but as a woman you disappear into a black fabric cloak. What’s underneath becomes a huge mystery, in some odd way; it is both sexy and repressive.

We will both do it again. Next time I want a group of personal friends. I regret not doing it with Kelly and Nick. It would have been bad ass. To end the blog, I tipped the driver like an American and it was raining in a sporadic UAE type of way as we walked in the revolving door of Tower 3. Good times.

Show up. We can do it together.
BrotherBill