Farming in the Desert

Being born as a farmer’s daughter, raised at least occasionally in a farm, it’s only normal that I’ve grown up with a deeply ingrained respect for nature.  I’ve always looked at man’s attempt at outdoing nature with mixed emotions – sky scrapers and gleaming exteriors do impress me fleetingly, but it’s the blue and the green and the yellow and the red that reach out to my soul more than the chrome and the grey. Is it karma, or is it just irony that I ended up in a city that has coaxed well-planned islands out of the sea, and boasts of the world’s tallest tower?

Unbelievably green!

However, I must admit this – I’ve learned to respect this place.  I’ve learned to admire man’s vision and determination that have succeeded in conjuring up this city from Arabian Nights in the middle of sand dunes, under an unrelenting sun.  I’ve learned to appreciate the way the city has managed to invite the blue, the green, the yellow and the red into the chrome and grey and endless sand.  It’s hard not to be impressed, living here, looking around…

Attempt everything!

What really amaze me, though, are the farms that lie just outside the city, right in the middle of the burning desert sand.  Green and humid, showing off impossible-looking fruits.  Fighting heat, sand, flies and salt water.  Tended by expatriates who think that farming is more than just another over-worked, under-paid job, they thrive despite it all.

Man’s will against nature’s won’t.  For once, I admire man.

Arabian Gold

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