In Pursuit Of The Real Abu Dhabi
As someone who finds myself frequently playing the role of tourist, I have a perhaps unreasonably strong yearning to prove myself as the very opposite. ...
Nov 30, 2013
As someone who finds myself frequently playing the role of tourist, I have a perhaps unreasonably strong yearning to prove myself as the very opposite. I run screaming from sock-and-sandal combinations; I am terrified of large excursion buses, and even the most well-meaning of tour guides make me want to run away as fast as I can to a local market where I can once again assert my legitimacy as a real traveler.
I can’t be the only one that finds myself puffing my chest out in pride when I stumble upon an exotic locale that seemingly few tourists visit. I’m practically the only foreigner here, I think to myself: gold star for me, the traveller who has strayed from the beaten path. I can go home and tell my friends and family that I had a real experience, not the watered-down, tourist-tainted, illegitimate façade of a city that I associate with the sandal-wearing, DSLR camera-toters.
There are, of course, many benefits to my — perhaps pretentious — allergy to tourist buses and unfortunate footwear combinations. Truly engaging with a foreign country, especially as a short-term visitor, is no easy task. Seeing a city in crystal clear resolution is much more difficult without being behind a camera lens; there is no autofocus for the true visitor’s sight.
But I’m not sure that the beaten path deserves to be vilified. The fact is, when we are traveling, we are tourists. It’s as simple as that. Integration into a new country takes time. It takes language, openness, friends, a support network and a home. As short-term visitors, we cannot hope to be locals. In the mad flurry of Eid travel plans, learning Amharic or Hindi is not high on many priority lists. My argument is not that we don’t engage with the countries we travel to — far from it. I’m just not sure why I decided that ‘touristy’ was one of the most insulting adjectives I could use to describe my past, present and future journeys.
So what is authenticity in travelling? And are we entitled to the pursuit of it?
The NYU Abu Dhabi community houses many travellers; many of us are guests in the UAE. For those among our student body that are guests, the debate over whether Abu Dhabi should be called home rages on and will continue to do so in this city that arguably does not take well to foreigners. Students, myself included, speak of Abu Dhabi as being a hard place to crack or penetrate. We speak of this city as if it were an exotic fruit, a struggle to break into but worth it for the sweet, fleshy center within. Where, then, is the center of Abu Dhabi? What represents its beating heart?
Some may find this center in the bubbles of a shisha canister or tucked into a quiet café hidden within a block of residential towers. Some may find it wrapped in a Foodlands falafel sandwich, hidden amongst garlic sauce and scraps of lettuce. Some glimpse it in children’s upturned faces, in the immaculate perfection of the glittering skyscrapers or the equally immaculate perfection of the sunset. Some believe it is completely invisible to travelers, as intangible and transient as the wind that sweeps sand into every crevice of Sama Tower’s shining exterior. We catch glimpses of Abu Dhabi’s heart in the once-a-year rainfall, perhaps, or in the near-delirious patriotism that forms the mad cacophony of National Day.
As tempting as it is to find solace or resolution in these images, I can’t: I resort to imagery, to vague, poetic language, because I don’t know the answer to my own question. I have shed my travel gear and my biggest suitcase only makes a seldom appearance for the pilgrimage back to New Zealand. For all intents and purposes, this is my home. And yet I still feel like a traveller.
I am on a quest to engage with this city and, dare I say it, avoid being a tourist. I still have an affinity for ‘local’ places where English barely gets me through a menu order. I catch myself searching for a sign that I’m a local, a sign that I belong here. No matter how many times I challenge myself into taking a public bus or feel guilty for my complete incompetence with respect to the Arabic language, I can’t quite crack it.
I have friends and a support network and a home. I am open to experience. I’ve had time — perhaps not enough. I am lacking language, but that doesn’t seem like a serious consideration. Arabic speakers in the wider community, as we all know, are not easy to come by. What, then, is so elusive? What’s not adding up in my hastily fabricated integration equation?
Perhaps the UAE itself is struggling with the same question. It is so easy to forget that this country has existed for a mere 42 years to the day. If we look at that age within a wider anthropological context, it barely registers: if countries have country years like dogs have dog years, the UAE is surely only the miniscule beginnings of a fetus.
So perhaps I am doing my job right. I’m traveling well and Abu Dhabi is meeting me halfway. I can’t expect to find an essence that is so capricious and indeterminate as to be unattainable. Abu Dhabi is very real and will continue to develop its essence, as will I. We can look for its beating heart in any and all of the moments we choose, for none of these junctures can truly be classed as legitimate or illegitimate in a city that is still defining those ideas for itself. We cannot expect to pin down Abu Dhabi; it is still in its own formative years, and that fact renders impossible our search for its center. In lieu of feeling like a failed traveler, I have resolved to accept this city for what it is. I will use my absolved guilt to incite my own growth, as well as that of the city; Abu Dhabi will take shape through its occupants.
So I will continue looking for those precious moments that make me feel at home. I will try to live up to my residency visa, and I will try not to expect too much from the heat and the dust. While I am appreciating the changes that sweep Abu Dhabi, waiting for the city to find itself, I will also be thankful that I don’t have to don the sock-and-sandal combination in the meantime. I am a traveller at home.
Tessa Ayson is a staff writer. Email her at editorial@thegazelle.com.
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