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Thug Life himself, was on Jebel Jais. Omar and Connor would tell their parents they were with Mayed, and Mayed would tell his mom he was with his uncle in Khor Fakkan. They had dirhams, enough for taxi fare to the base of the mountain, where the paved road ended. They would camp overnight, and then Connor would guide them. He knew the bedu trails from hikes with his mother and brother, and he knew how to treat snakebites. Mayed wanted to go to prove Sami wrong, and he knew the most about keeping safe from mountain jinn, and what else would he do on another weekend night in Ras Al Khaimah anyways? The cinema was playing Titanic for the third time, two years after its release. Named for the Kuwaiti Brousley family and not for any connection, real or imagined, to the martial artist. Other boys went to Nasser to watch Spice Girls videos or to burn Sublime CDs or to find the most outrageous pornography, like girls doing unspeakable things with an octopus. Ras Al Khaimah claimed Tupac as its own , and if you listened to lyrics, it was all there. Later, the cafeteria would be renamed Saif Al Khaleej Cafeteria — the Sword of the Gulf — drop goat brains from its menu and add spicy shawarma when the neighborhood gentrified and its coastline expanded into the sea to make more land for mansions and a luxury resort for German tourists who believed themselves to be in Dubai. Boys would lay out these banquets on plastic mats and blast music from their cars, lip-sync to Tupac, moonwalk to Michael Jackson. When the dawn call to prayer crackled from the minarets above, it signaled the sun would soon rise and it was time to go home. Everyone claimed Tupac. Tupac moved to California and pretended to be an all-out American, because what American audience would ever accept a Muslim rapper from Sharjah as an OG? An NGO had gotten him to the U. He was Bangladeshi, the great-grandson of a Sufi mystic whose Qawwali performances swept nobility into trances of ecstasy. He was Pakistani, obviously — why else was he called 2Pac? Did Tupac die in a Las Vegas shooting? Maybe not. Who could believe the American news? It never got the Palestinian story right. Maybe Tupac was alive. Maybe he did know the sheikh. Maybe he was from Ras Al Khaimah and had come back. Maybe the only way for Omar to know the truth was to go and see for himself. The shorts had deeper pockets than a Sudanese thobe. He also carried a large backpack with old blankets and a grease-stained bag of beef sausage rolls from Sticky Buns Bakery. On the outside of his cargo shorts, Omar wore a thick metal chain, just like gangstas wore in hip-hop music videos. Mayed came late. They were about to give up on him when he walked around the corner, raising a six-inch knife in the air. The only thing you ever need is a knife, explained Mayed, to cut wood or honeycomb or to frighten Irani sailors smuggling sheep with drug-stuffed assholes across the Strait of Hormuz. Mayed had won the knife six months earlier in a bet from an American classmate, who had ordered it from GunzNKnives. When the parcel arrived at customs, he was summoned to the police headquarters to explain why he wanted a knife like that, as if a thirteen-year-old needed a reason to want a knife. He was referred to higher-and-higher-ranking officers until a three-star officer said he could keep the knife on the condition he sign a paper declaring his liability if anyone was ever killed or injured with the imported blade. The American promptly lost the knife in a bet to Mayed about who could eat the most KFC chicken skins during an all-you-can-eat promotion. At Mishmish Grocery, the boys bought six Red Bulls, four laban, six bottles of water, two bags of flatbread, twelve bags of Chips Oman, one jar of spreadable cheese, one jar of hot sauce, one bottle of lighter fluid and eight Mars bars. The taxi carried them away from the city for an hour, past a military base, into the blackness of wadi basin, and dropped them at the end of the paved road, by the empty, flat fields of an abandoned farm. Connor and Sami scavenged some wood, used a bottle of lighter fluid to turn their campsite into a pyrotechnics display, pushed some rocks around the fire, and unfurled blankets beneath a sidr tree. Mayed threw frankincense onto the fire, filling the air with clouds of smoke, and recited Ayat al Kursi to repel any lingering spirits. He told them about a cave connecting Ras Al Khaimah to Fujairah, where strange wailings were said to come from the shaytan that lived inside. Word got out about the haunted cave, and tourists began to come from Ajman, Sharjah, and even Dubai, because city slickers love to visit the haunted places of Ras Al Khaimah. Within a week, a pair of enterprising Keralites had set up competing stalls outside the cave, selling balloons and Pikachu dolls, popcorn and chips, chai karak and samosa to fill the bellies and empty the wallets of jinn-seeking tourists. All that noise was probably just owls or doves or something. The worst were hitchhikers, said Sami. Never, ever pick up hitchhikers in the mountains. Everyone knew mountain hitchers were jinn in disguise. You could only recognize them by their cloven feet. Never mind jinn hitchhikers, said Mayed. The next day, not a single drop of blood or piece of bone could be found. They were gone, their house empty. And a lion last year. The Al Ain Zoo is full, and when Abdullah tried to donate his pet lion, they told him they had too many lions, twenty-two of them! His wife was so angry, but now she loves it more than he does. Connor shook his head. Mayed, spooked by his own stories of jinn and afreet, kept awake for another hour. I saw him sniff your toes while you shut your eyes and cried. Connor kept the sausage rolls in his backpack with the blankets, remember? The boys packed up and started up the dusty road to meet Tupac Shakur, their feet light with adventure, the layers of the earth unfolded below. Sometimes he also felt like he was living to die, living in a country that would never give him citizenship. His own parents might not have dealt with gang violence, but they were born just after the Nakba and knew violence of another kind. His grandmother still carried the key from her house in her pocket, kept safe since the day in when Israelis forced his family from their home. His people had their own oppressors, backed by Western politicians, just like the police and FBI fought against Black Americans and …. A rumble rose from the valley below, its hum growing until a truck overtook them and stopped on the bouldered track ahead. Remember what happened to Saleh with the taxi driver? Sami followed, reluctant. It was no trouble, he said. He was on his way to collect some goats from a neighboring farm, and the trail was on his way. He said so many hitchhikers are not people, they are jinn. Kaka veered just shy of the sharp drops at each hairpin turn, zigzagging up until the track began to level. He parked on the side of the dirt road. The stone steps of a donkey trail, worn to a sheen from centuries of footfall, rose perpendicular to the road. Kaka shook his head. They can turn you into the police anytime, his uncle warned. Keep away. Omar rummaged in his pockets and held up his Walkman like a trophy. Kaka had come to the UAE dreaming of the big city. He thought his dreams came true the night he flew into Dubai and saw the shine of ships in the Gulf, the gleam of the city, the orange tendrils of well-lit highways stretching into the desert. In Dubai, everything was bright like a festival. But the driver who collected him took him out of Dubai, down one of those bright highways, and kept driving into the darkness of the mountains where his uncle waited for him. Kaka wanted the Dubai life. Ras Al Khaimah was like Peshawar, but without family. Kaka and his uncle saw their employer on weekends in winter, when his family went to their mountain house for the novelty of chilly nights, but most of the time it was just Kaka and his uncle tending to a few stone huts, a herd of goats, and a pair of donkeys. Kaka had nicknamed the female after the movie star Kajol, for her intelligence, and the male Shah Rukh Khan, for his expressive eyes. Kaka had learnt pidgin Arabic and how to coax a Hilux over the network of stony tracks that connected mountain hamlets. But he missed the company of boys his age. So when Omar made his offer, Kaka thought the Walkman would be entertainment, and so would the walk. I can take you most of the way. In half an hour, Kaka would come to regret this decision. But at that moment, his heart was full, his mood hopeful. Kaka nodded with the music. Too many police. If the police find me, they deport me. My family needs money. The palace was on the ridge just beyond the boulder patch, he promised. You got any camel spiders out here in these mountains, Mayed? He was eyeing Kaka with suspicion, clasping the jar of Zamzam water in his right fist. Maybe Sami was right not to trust drivers. Sami had forgotten all about jinn. He was squinting at the crevices in the limestone above and peering into dark crannies beneath boulders, looking for partridge and lizard bones or other evidence of big cats. Lions would love that. A perfect lair. He had picked up a giant stick, and he swung it back and forth as he walked. Omar had fallen behind. He kept stopping to write in his notebook. He had tied a red kerchief around his head with a big bow in the front, just like Tupac wore it. For the heat, he said. Kaka looked nervously at the motley crew behind him swinging sticks and cracking ropes, and his doubt grew. Who were these strange boys? Had they really come to the mountain to meet a poet? What did that boy with the bow on his head keep writing in his notebook? Why did they have all that rope? What was in the backpack? Could they be bounty hunters? Did they work with the police? Or were they some sort of mischief jinn, leading him straight into trouble? Omar had crouched behind another boulder to write in his notebook again. A low, sustained growl and the quick shuffle of gravel. Kaka took his chance and set off in the other direction, bounding back between the boulders as fast as his legs could carry him. A shot sounded from above. A tall soldier stood on the ridge above, his rifle smoking. Not CID. The gate looked locked. No sign of Tupac or anyone else. He knows everyone. My dad knows too much about the royals. The boys seated themselves on cold metal chairs under an air conditioner blasting at full force and yellowed, curling posters of sheikhs who, despite gentle smiles and aviator sunglasses, held the authority of omniscient, omnipotent beings. Tupac had never seemed so distant. The soldier pulled out a pen and notebook and filled an entire page. Omar squinted to decipher the upside-down words: Smugglers. His writing accelerated and his notes spilled onto a second page. Omar could make out the word Hadhrami. Out came the Swiss Army knife, the coils of rope, the compass, the flashlight, wrinkled sheets that smelt of sausage rolls, crumpled bags of Cheetos, crushed cartons of laban, the notebook of geometry proofs and questions for Tupac, the six-inch knife. Captain Obaid! The door opened, and an older officer entered. He took a hard look at the scrappy, dust-caked boys. Mayed bowed his head, but Sami looked the captain straight in the eyes. The captain sat in silence, rubbing his lapis ring for a full minute before he spoke. The boys were completely still. The only noise came from the AC. Maybe smugglers? His eyes flitted between the young soldier and the boys, a flicker of a smile at the corners of his lips. You boys are in very serious trouble. Very serious. Wrong answer, thought Omar. What was Mayed thinking? They were on the Deportation Express. Next stop: exile. And why are you still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses? Have you asked them for ID? None carried ID. This was it, thought Omar. The end to his life in Ras Al Khaimah. It was all over. Deportation and a lifetime ban. He would grow up away from his parents, and they would forget him, their no-good son. His mother had always told him American rap would lead to trouble, and here he was. Mayed was Emirati, Sami had wasta, and Connor had the Australian embassy, but Omar knew he only had himself and this was it, game over. I just need to make a report before I get you back. I went there. She taught me English. A very kind woman, God bless her. And, Connor, I know your mother too. My sister is always talking about her. Very strict. But good. Mayed rolled his eyes. Omar pulled off his bandana and wiped the tears from his flushed cheeks. He is American. And he is dead. Too dead. You know there is no Tupac here. He keeps looking for reasons to fire his rifle and impress his cousins in Abu Dhabi. They think Ras Al Khaimah is jungle. Here, have some coffee. These dates are from my garden. After the captain finished his report, he guided them down the ridge to a wide dirt road. They settled into the back of a Nissan Patrol and set off down the wadi. Vibrations rattled their bones. A breeze dried the sweat from their temples. All Omar felt was exhaustion. But we are. They were back by Thursday evening. Her book, People of Ras Al Khaimah , with American photojournalist Jeff Topping, documents more than fifty firsthand accounts of Gulf migration, with portraits of pearl divers, gold traders, sword dancers, henna artists, and other long-term residents. Then the ivy shot up and closed in on her, snake-like, twisting around her feet and ankles. The fire was talked about all over. She finds it embarrassing to waste a Saturday morning on this nonsense. Home Subscribe Issues Support Us. The plan came quick. For Omar, the trip was everything. They were ready for anything. They shared a dinner of sausage rolls and laban. Omar leapt up. The others froze. Not good, thought Omar. The soldier handed his senior the report. None of the boys thought again about Kaka. October 21, Get Our Newsletter. Discover the extraordinary in The Common. Receive stories, poems, essays, and interviews in your inbox every week. Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form. Subscribe to The Common.

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