On our way to paradise

We don’t know it yet, but we are on our way to paradise for cyclists in full marching kits. Paradise is situated on our globe, at 56 degrees and 8 minutes latitude and 25 degrees and 21 minutes longitude. By chance, or maybe not exactly by chance, paradise for cyclists lies in the United Arab Emirates.
But we don’t know it.
Not yet…

We cycle away from the beach of Al Qir, just south of the border of the northern enclave of Oman. Until Ras Al Khaimah we cover the same road we did yesterday, which is the only road in the wide surroundings, so we don’t have a lot of choice. From Ras we cycle into the interior, on our way to the Hot Baths of Khatt. In the afternoon, after twelve diversions and having inquired six times we finally find our destination of the day. Unfortunately everyone who pointed us the right way omitted to tell us that the hot water attraction in the desert has been closed to the public for quite a while because of ongoing renovations. Without success we turn around; cycling in the Emirates requires a flexible mind much more than strong legs, because correct and complete information is a scarce commodity.
The unpaved track on our map, through the mountains to the eastern Gulf of Oman, turns out to be transformed into a tar road as smooth as a mirror. After the village of Tawyain we get off the road to find a place for the night between rocks and mountains. It is dead quiet, the guarantee for a relaxed night.

It is only a short ride to Dibba through a landscape where nothing seems to grow and where goats have to work hard for their daily living. We have set our hearts upon a day off in Dibba, but it’s hard to realise this. The cheapest accommodation is still over forty euro and thus too expensive for our budget and camping is not possible.
Ten kilometres south of Dibba we finally find a place for the tent, at the beach, between the garbage that the people throw everywhere. It is uncomprehensible for us that people pollute their own backyards, the beach, like this. After making a clean sweep we have a perfect spot under the acacia’s with a view of the unlimited horizon of the Gulf.

The small village of Bidiya possesses one of the most beautiful heritages from the Emirates past. The oldest mosque of the country dates from 1446 AD and has a particular shape: four domes supported by a central pillar. Two watch-towers flank the building that’s still in use and offer a great view of Bidiya and the vast date plantations.
Along fruit stalls, banana plantations, the ugly Meridien Hotel, villages that are being demolished to build new hotels and more industrial space we cycle to Khor Fhakkan. This place is adored by everybody because of the long stretched green park that has been built with a lot of money. Green is the favorite colour in this country, that by nature only knows the colours yellow, grey and brown.
Today we have set our hopes on Fujairah. Like everywhere we – in vain - try to find a tourist information office, so the only thing we can do is ask around. More than seventy percent of the Emirates population exists of foreigners, mostly Iranians, Pakistani, Indians and Filippino’s and none of them has ever heard of the youth hostel that must be here somewhere. In a supermarket we address a white woman and that turns out to be the bulls eye. Eva, who works as a singer in the Marina Club, refers us to the yacht club where we should talk to Major Ahmed, the manager.
In the office of Major Ahmed, sipping at a fresh cup of tea, our laborious life in the Emirates changes dramatically. No youth hostel, no camping on the terrain of the yacht club in the searing sun. The Major orders his staff to clear one of the airconditioned portacabins, where we can stay as long as we want. The restaurant of the Marine Club is at our disposal: twice a day a meal free of charge and free (non-alcoholic) drinks. The computer of Haytham, his assistant, is there not only for him but also for us. Irene, Ahmed’s wife, washes our laundry. We are allowed to read all the books of the Club.
We are allowed to do anything, except leave.

This is the most special reception we ever got. And many special receptions preceded this one. We give an interview to the local newspaper, go fishing with Suzanne Laborius, a Dutch expat, pay a visit to the harbour of Fujairah, where Fatima is just as hospitable and friendly as everyone. In the bookshop of Jean and Chris de Zilwa, on the terrain of the Marina Club, we can select books to read and take away with us.
We meet Paul and Marleen, a Dutch couple that already live and work in Fujairah for more than two years. Peter drives with Paul to Dubai, where Paul has a day full of meetings. Peter collect a parcel from TNT, containing a new stearing bag for me and our Pentax camera, repaired by our sponsor Pentax, free of charge. That day I give a couple of interviews to Arab papers and two lectures in the high school for boys. Lectures about the strange lives we live and the choices one can make in life.

On our last day we feast upon a real Dutch meal at Paul and Marleen’s place. For two weeks we are taken aback and almost feel ashamed by all gifts, attention, hospitality and friendliness.
Paradise for weary cyclists.
It’s in the Emirates.
In Fujairah.