Let’s talk status. In Abu Dhabi, capital of the United Arab Emirates, four people and a working ox find themselves together under the ragged shade of Arabian palm trees. There is me, a perpetual observer, surveying the scene. There is the farmer, coaxing his hefty animal back and forth. There is a high-ranking government official, resplendent in his flowing white robes and headdress. And there is his guest, an admiral in the French navy, exuding haughty dignity. Who is preeminent in this impromptu gathering? I vote for the ox.

The ox is tethered to a rig of wood and ropes designed to winch a leather bag out of a well. Each time he lumbers down a steep concrete slope, the bag is hauled up and gushes its contents into an irrigation channel. We are surrounded by a dense chaos of greenery, the legacy of months of bovine labor.

That anything should grow here is a minor miracle. Beyond the cluster of vegetation, the late morning sun beats upon dry desert sand. Moving from abundance to paucity takes two or three steps. Such is the tenuous grip of life here. The ox is doing nothing less than pumping the region’s lifeblood — fresh water.

Having witnessed a minor miracle, how about a major one? I leave behind the toiling ox and his esteemed audience and walk a short distance to the ruined walls of a settlement that was established here about 250 years ago, when fresh water first was discovered in the area. Early Abu Dhabi was a modest fishing village, and in the air-conditioned museum close to where I am standing there are black-and-white photographs showing it in that guise as recently as the 1970s.

From this archaeological site, located within the Heritage Village on a narrow spit of land, I cast my gaze across an inlet of the Arabian Gulf and take in the high-rise panorama of downtown Abu Dhabi. The hum of traffic can be heard across the water. The smell of money is in the air.

Abu Dhabi’s transformation from sleepy village to international city began in 1958, when one of the world’s largest oil fields was discovered here. The vista I am looking at did not evolve in the natural way of most cities — it was bought wholesale. Most of the concrete and glass buildings are more or less the same height; the roads mostly adhere to a standard grid pattern. Few allowances were made for aesthetics or tradition. Abu Dhabi is an off-the-peg petrodollar city.

One significant fragment of history remains within the heart of the city. Qasr al-Hosn, the White Fort, was constructed in the 18th century to protect the original fresh water well on Abu Dhabi island. Subsequently, the fort became the palace of the Emir. When I enter the main gate, the centuries fall away; the sounds and view of the modern city are instantly masked by the thick white walls. The fort’s oldest tower, a formidable structure built in 1761, is an eloquent testament to the value of water; this is what was required to guard it.

I scale the steep flight of steps up to the battlements, and return to the present. The fort is dwarfed on all sides by high-rise buildings, some of which are topped by huge advertising billboards — Rolex, Samsonite. If I am struggling to get a handle on Abu Dhabi, it is not surprising. From my vantage on these ancient walls I am looking out at a city of 1.4 million people, only 25 percent of whom are U.A.E. nationals. The fabric of the city is less than 40 years old, and three-quarters of its inhabitants are foreigners. Can such a place have a true identity?

From Qasr al-Hosn, I walk the short distance to the attractively designed Cultural Foundation (www.cultural.org.ae/e/). In this large complex, which includes the National Archives of the United Arab Emirates and also the National Library, efforts are being made to address the difficult question of identity. The foundation aims to promote and enhance the cultural heritage of the Emirates, and recently has opened a shop selling locally made handicrafts.

Lining one of the foundation’s courtyards, I find a herd of garishly painted fiberglass camels. A couple of local children clamber onto one of them while their laughing father, dressed in full Arabian regalia, takes their photograph. His paternal pride is plain to see. When he nods at me, smiling, I sense his national pride, too.

Water and oil made this city what it is today, and now, utilizing its vast wealth, a new, distinctly Arabian future is being forged. One of the first representations of this is the Emirates Palace Hotel (www.emiratespalace.com), which cost a staggering $3 billion to build. It is owned by the government of Abu Dhabi and managed by the Kempinski Group.

It looks impressive enough from the outside, standing within 250 acres of parkland, appearing every bit like a romanticized Arabian palace. But nothing can prepare me for the spectacular interior. I stride across the polished Italian marble floor of the lobby to the grand atrium and look up. High above me is the largest of the hotel’s 114 domes; this one is 138 feet across, decorated with a mosaic of silver and gold tiles.

There are 302 deluxe luxury rooms — the basic standard of this seven-star hotel — and an additional 92 palatial suites. The top-end suites have bathrooms with gold fittings, but my status is a notch below that: I have to make do with silver fittings. From the balcony, I look over lush lawns planted with 8,000 trees. The skyline of Abu Dhabi shimmers in the afternoon sun. Opposite lies the Heritage Village, where, even now, the ox will be hauling water from the well.

The other suites of the hotel are no doubt occupied by a glittering roll call of international celebrities, tycoons, French admirals, politicians and royalty. But in a city built on desert sand, status is a mirage; fresh water is everything. I still vote for the ox.