It would have remained a Thursday encumbered by the plight of laziness if my mother, with whom I share a penchant for tales of spirits and phantoms, would not have come up with the spontaneous plan of a visit to Jazirat Al Hamrah. “It is rumoured to be haunted by djinns and deemed by many as the Ghost Town of Ras Al Khaimah,” she said. This served as the prerequisite which would eventually entice me to an evening outside the confines of my home whilst waking me up from the slumber of an idle-mind.
The sun shone high and mighty as we set off on this mother-daughter adventure. I entered the old coastal village with a solemn silence. I meandered past tumbled walls and rows of dilapidated buildings that were in a deep reverie of thoughts. Homes overlooking courtyards and a towering fort. The souqs wore a forlorn expression.
“Stay close. Do not wander off,” my mother recited her well-versed prelude of caution that she has particularly assigned to places marred with myths of the haunting. I shrugged it off with a laugh merely out of a resolute childish belief that the presence of the sun can ward off unfriendly acquaintances (or even buy me some time to run off). Marking my footprints on the ochre desert sands, I strolled through the narrow winding alleyways and the crumbled ruins that are relics of a bygone era.
Once upon a time, this was a civilisation that hustled and bustled to the activities of daily life; where children would have gleefully roamed the streets. Once upon a time, this was a fishing village inhabited by the local tribe of Al Zaab that thrived on the joys of a simple living and the Hadhrs (or the coastal Bedouins) who subsisted on pearl fishing. The sudden and incessant meowing of a stray cat startled me out of my thoughts. When a quietude claimed its presence, I decided to look for my mother who was found admiring the architecture and ingeniousness of the artisans. The use of coral and stone in the building techniques gave the structures the necessary support to withstand the climatic conditions of the desert.
The arrival of the sunset gripped our senses. And when night fell, it brought an eerie sense of foreboding. Perhaps, this was the result of the exhaustion of my mind unwinding after the hours spent prodding through history. The journey back home involved lulling over stories that lurked in the dark corners and shadows of those houses.
The proud heir of a heritage that withstood the tides of the modern age, Jazirat Al Hamra sits resplendently braving the scorching sun and harsh winds. Haunted by memories of a happier time, this abandoned village has guarded the legacy of a tradition that traces its roots to the 16th century. As I muse over these stray thoughts, I wonder what decades of abandonment could do to the soul of a being.
Mariam Henna is a travel blogger at The Brown Eyed Tales
