Those who have lived in the UAE long enough know that summer does not arrive suddenly. It does not crash in like a thunderstorm.
A UAE summer is far more theatrical than that. It takes its time. It sends out signals, makes announcements and delivers a full opening act before the main performer appears.
Residents are given fair warning: run, take shelter, leave while you still can.
The first signal is the appearance of giant neon countdown signs at Global Village, announcing the season's closing date. For tourists, it means one final visit. For residents, Global Village closing is not an event. It is a diagnosis.
Then come the flame trees.
From Sheikh Zayed Road to the Abu Dhabi Corniche, the country erupts in bursts of orange and red. Someone inevitably posts the comparison: Japan has cherry blossoms; the UAE has flame trees.
The Japanese version inspires poetry, picnics and reflection on the fleeting nature of life. Ours inspire you to check whether your AC servicing is due.
The community WhatsApp groups then begin their annual transformation. Gone are lost-cat alerts, recommendations for maths tutors and debates over water pressure. In their place arrive the AC technicians.
“Full service: Dh150.”
“Same-day appointment.”
“Chemical cleaning.”
“Outdoor-unit deep wash.”
The messages multiply. You realise there are three appointments you must never postpone in this country: renewing your visa, paying your electricity bill – Dewa, Sewa, Taqa, and servicing the one machine standing between your family and heatstroke.
By now, the signals are unmistakable. Schools are shut. In Dubai, you can take Al Khail Road instead of Sheikh Zayed Road and actually arrive faster. It is the one season when avoiding the toll during rush hour does not make you feel financially inadequate. There is even a quiet thrill in dodging it, as though you have outsmarted the RTA.
The airports tell a different story. For once, you take the recommended three-hour reporting window seriously. The check-in queues are so long that the departure halls resemble a co-ordinated international evacuation.
And yet, some people stay behind. The residents who remain can be divided into four species.
The first failed to read the signs and left it too late to book. By the time they checked the fares, the trade-off between the electricity bill and the airfare had tilted violently in the wrong direction. Running the AC at 18°C for the next 60 days was still cheaper than buying return tickets for the family.
The second group read the signs perfectly well. But this year, they performed a different calculation: two extra hours of sleep versus the 6am school-bus run. They packed the family on to a flight, waved goodbye at departures and returned home to a silent apartment, a chilled fridge and the kind of sleep usually available only to the unconscious.
Then comes the most optimistic species of all.
They read every signal. They could have escaped. The extra sleep did not matter. They simply looked at summer, cracked their knuckles and said: “This year, I fight.”
These are the people who arrive for their mall walkathon before the security guards have opened the doors. They are the handful still showing up at the gym – the only reason the gym staff must continue clocking in. They are the defiant ones. They see “42°C, feels like 51°C” and treat the extra nine degrees as motivation.
And then there are people like me.
For years, I planned my escape around the UAE summer. I watched the signs, booked the flights and left at exactly the right moment. But eventually, even escaping became exhausting.
So this year, I stayed.
Not because I am braver than those who fled to cooler postcodes. I stayed because somewhere between the flame trees and the Global Village fireworks, I realised something nobody says aloud: a UAE summer is not survived. It is joined.
You stop fighting the heat and start scheduling around it – malls by day, everything else after eleven at night. You become nocturnal, permanently indoors and strangely at peace with the fact that opening your front door feels like standing behind a bus exhaust.
This year, the summer looked me in the eye and said: “Leave while you still can.”
I looked back, lowered the thermostat, raised the SPF, and said: “I live here.”
The writer is the co-founder and chief executive of Huru. He has previously worked with Google and McKinsey, and written for several leading Indian dailies
