A Day with the Saeed Rashid Al Shehhi Family - Part 1

Ras Al Khaimah corniche view from our room

The day following Yaqoob’s daughter’s wedding, Saeed invited us to visit his home and take a tour of the area. Because the military base where he works is far from home, Saeed lives in an apartment in Dubai during the week, but on weekends travels home to Ras Al Khaimah, in the extreme northeast part of the country near the entrance to the Straits of Hormuz, where his family lives and where he grew up.

Although we weren’t sure what we were getting into, and we faced a long drive home to Abu Dhabi, we happily accepted Saeed’s offer. Tom, Lucy, Mark and I arranged to meet Saeed in town when he finished his Saturday shopping with his family while Dana and Deb opted to head back toward Abu Dhabi at a leisurely pace.

Chocolate gift packages are eye-catching ...

We had some time before our 11:00 a.m. rendezvous, so we did a little window shopping across the street from the Corniche Wedding Hall. The first shop had platters of wrapped chocolates, just like the ones at the Yaqoob wedding. Soon after I arrived in Abu Dhabi I’d noticed the elaborately packaged platters for sale in specialty shops and souqs. They come in combinations of gold, silver, pink, blue, and white for wedding and baby celebrations and perhaps birthdays, anniversaries, and other parties. They remind me of cakes, and in my mind they are a symbol of Arab hospitality and their lavish celebrations.

... but we couldn't resist the beautiful abayas.

The chocolatier was closed but the shop next door selling abayas (the black cloak that women wear over their regular clothing in public) and sheylas (head scarves) was open. We wandered in, and asked if we could take pictures. No problem, the Indian proprietor said. The next thing we knew, Lucy and I were posing in our favorite sheylas and abayas and snapping photos.

Lucy looked stunning.

Lucy chose a sheyla to buy and just as she was fishing out her dirhams, Saeed pulled up with his wife and three daughters. Mark and Tom went out to greet them, and as they shook hands the wife and daughters swept into the shop. The daughters came first, shaking our hands and greeting us in English. The mother and two older girls wore abayas and sheylas, and the youngest was in regular clothes. When I greeted the mom, she saw the henna tattoo on my right hand and pointed at it approvingly as she said hello. The daughters, although a bit shy at first, spoke to us in English; Lucy and I were both eager to talk with them.

The shop keeper said this
is a wedding abaya.

First, they got down to the business of shopping for the two older daughters. What a great opportunity to witness the everyday life of women here! They examined cloaks with trim in several fabrics and colors, preferring the simpler designs – no sparkles. The oldest daughter liked a style trimmed with a black jacquard; I told her that I love jacquard too. As each style came out, the shop keeper opened a drawer and drew out the matching sheyla. These cloak and scarf combinations are so elegant that I began to realize that I want one for myself. Later I told Mark that he needs to help me pick one out some time. I think he likes that idea.

Next the two girls were measured for height; their new cloaks will be custom made. The style is to have the hem dragging; Lucy, Deb and I all agree this would be a serious tripping hazard for us, not to mention getting caught in escalators. Lucy and I sat down to chat with the older daughter, and asked when the young girls begin to wear the abaya; the answer was whenever they want to but usually around the age of 14. That makes sense, because at that age they transition from being a girl into a woman.

It's more modest to
cover the hair

As an independent-minded Western woman, I find the idea of wearing a scarf or mask covering my face incomprehensible, yet I am developing an instinct for why wearing the abaya is the mode for the modest woman here. The most traditional women wear the sheyla so that it covers the hair, but we often see young women whose hair is not completely covered, and sometimes with their abayas open, showing jeans or other stylish clothing beneath. She can wear whatever she likes at home, and yet go out and be appropriately dressed – better yet, elegantly dressed! – and not subject herself to the unwanted attention of prying eyes.  What woman doesn’t want to be both comfortably and stylishly dressed? My perception may shift, however, as the humidity and temperature here rise, which is already starting to happen. Perhaps they could make them in a lighter color? Like the white khanduras the men wear?

We were surprised to learn that the oldest daughter is 17 years old – all of Saeed’s children look younger than their age. She mentioned that she was starting back to school for the new semester, and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like school.” Her mother, gleaning the topic of our conversation, turned and said something over her shoulder that made her daughter smile and shake her head no, which caused me to ask what was said. “You don’t like school? Would you prefer marriage?” So . . .  family dynamics in the Middle East are not so different. Education is a top priority in the UAE today; Saeed has five Bachelor of Science and three Master of Science engineering and management degrees in mechanical, electrical, electronic and materials fields. His children will no doubt follow in his footsteps.

Finally we women – Emirati women in abayas and Lucy and me in our Western t-shirts and jeans – emerged from the shop together and joined the men – Mark and Tom in their Western t-shirts and pants and Saeed in his kandura and ghutra, the Emirati national dress for men – and loaded up into our vehicles to follow Saeed’s SUV. We figured that we would get the full treatment: lunch and a tour of the landscape. Although we were still recovering from wedding food overload, I was really looking forward to this treat. I love the food here, and I’d eaten lightly at the hotel breakfast buffet in anticipation of an authentic Arab lunch.

Saeed's back yard has a view of the mountain
and date plantation.

As we approached the northwestern portion of the rocky Al Hajar mountain range – the same mountain range Mark and I drove through further south and west on our way to Oman at Christmas – we drove past a huge mining and concrete facility, which Saeed later told us is actually four separate concrete plants, each making different products. It’s no wonder, with all of the construction going on in the UAE. Now we know where at least some of the material comes from.

Saeed's home is a few blocks from this active Gulf fishing port

We turned toward the beach and onto a sandy road. Saeed’s neighborhood is part of an old established fishing village with a very historic feel. Buildings and fences are made of combinations of materials, with piles of rocks and scraps of concrete and metal scattered here and there; goats and chickens mill around, and we even saw some cattle, which are a rarer sight. Behind us we could see Jabal Yibir, at 5,010 ft. the highest named peak in the UAE, and before us we could see and smell the sea, so we knew we were in a special place.

Seaside swing set

We discovered that the perception that all Emiratis are multi-millionaires is not true. I don’t have statistics, but the majority of the population of the UAE are ordinary, hardworking people with large families just like Saeed. As the oldest son, Saeed is responsible for the welfare of his parents, siblings, and their families, as well as his own – a huge responsibility but one that he accepts with pride.

We pulled into a car port next to a wall with a large iron gate and I could see an impressive multi-story house inside, similar to the houses in our Abu Dhabi neighborhood. As soon as the gate was opened, the women swept into the house and disappeared. Saeed showed us into a room at the front of the house with plush upholstered seating lining the walls. This meeting room, called a majlis, is a common feature in Arab homes.

Saeed and younger sons in the majlis

One by one, Saeed’s sons appeared. The two eldest we had gotten to know the night before; they attended the wedding and met us at the hotel. We met Saeed’s father and brothers as well, and they enjoyed looking at iPad photos our houses, families, pets and boats.

The eldest son Ghaith has great social skills, just like his father.

As lunch time drew near, a plastic cloth was spread in the middle of the floor, and the youngest daughter appeared with bowls of salad and containers of yogurt mixed with herbs. This was going to be good. Plates appeared and – yes! – we were happy to see silverware. Especially me, being left handed. I have learned that it’s OK to eat with your left hand if you have a fork, but if you are eating with your hand, it’s better to use the right. Then a huge platter of roast chicken on a bed of rice pilaf appeared, and we gathered around on the floor to eat. No sooner did we fill our plates than another similar platter, this one with ground lamb kebab, appeared. Two gigantic plates of delicious food! We were overwhelmed.

Our Arab feast.

This meal was set just for the five of us; Saeed’s father, brothers, wife and children didn’t join us. And this was the only room we saw. Yet rather than seem strange, it made sense. In our culture, the kitchen is the gathering place, but here this front room serves that purpose and the rest of the house is private family space. We were honored guests of Saeed, the leader of his family, and we had him all to ourselves. He told us that the food had come from his favorite restaurant, where the chicken and rice have a special flavor that comes from a secret combination of saffron and other spices. The rice had bits of fruit, which we thought were golden currants. We all had seconds.

As we ate and talked, Saeed mentioned that many non-Muslim people who live in other countries have the wrong impression, which is based upon limited information or the most sensational reports. Saeed told us that the vast majority of people of the Muslim faith who live in the Middle East, or wherever, are like him. They practice their own faith and respect others. We have found this to be true. Saeed and all the Emiratis we have met are tolerant, gracious, peaceful and generous, both with their hospitality and their time.

Here is a link to news story I recently read reporting that the teaching of tolerance and unity in a diverse society will become a part of Islamic education in the UAE http://www.thenational.ae/news/uae-news/education/islamic-education-to-include-greater-priority-for-tolerance

It's not hard to find something comfortable
and appropriate to wear.

Before Mark and I came to live in the UAE, I wondered what would be expected of me here. The simple answer is that I am expected to be myself: a Western woman. Even on warm days, out of respect, in public places I usually wear capri pants or a skirt that covers my knees, or at least shorts that aren’t too short, and I don’t wear a skimpy top unless it’s under a shirt – just as I do in the US. It’s no different than anywhere else – you figure out what’s appropriate, and you dress accordingly. Here it’s a little more modest but for us Westerners, only a little.

As we left the house for our tour and were saying goodbye to Saeed’s boys, who had popped up again, the front door to the house opened. I was the last one in the group, and so I was the only one to get to say a very brief but sweet goodbye to Saeed’s daughters and wife. She had removed her abaya and scarf, and I felt honored that I was allowed this glimpse of her smiling face and colorful dress. I hope I’ll get to meet her and her daughters again.

Kids everywhere are the same. We can learn a lot from them.

We are so lucky to have the opportunity to learn about the UAE firsthand from Saeed. I have heard several discussions between Tom, Dana and Mark about their appreciation for the amount of contact they have with Emiratis at work, which they consider a privilege. It’s easy to join a group like the American Women’s Network, and meet interesting women who have lived all over the world, but where do we go to meet Emirati women? I treasured every moment of the weekend.

But wait, this story isn’t over; I still need to write about Saeed's tour of  the mountains, where we experienced a peace and quiet that rivals our home in Nevada, and the visit to his father’s camel farm, where we were treated to the funniest sight and sound that ever came out of a camel’s mouth. And introduced to a seven-day old camel and mom.

Part 2 will be up very soon, inshallah.

An Emirati Wedding

Deb, Lucy and I tried to strike an elegant pose, but
our stomachs were so full we could barely stand up.

“We’re invited to a wedding,” Mark said one day when he got home. It’s not every day that expats get invited to an Emirati wedding. Mark didn’t have a lot of information, but that didn’t stop me from firing questions at him. Whose wedding? The bride was the daughter of Yaqoob (pronounced Yah-koob), a colonel in the military; his eldest child of ten. When? January 6^th. 

Only two weeks away! What to wear? What gift? Where would it be? What would it be like? The more I heard, the more I realized what a big deal – and a huge honor – this was. Tom, Mark and Dana were all invited. Are you sure wives are invited? I had done a little reading up on weddings here, and I knew that for at least portions of the wedding men and women celebrated separately. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but the next day at work Mark checked, and yes, wives were invited too.

The invitation was in Arabic and English

Ever since Deb and I shopped for our Marine Corps ball gowns, I’d been window shopping the bridal and gown shops in the malls. There are lots, with the most elaborate creations I could ever have imagined in the windows and on the racks. Deb and I went into one store and when we didn’t see anything we could wear, the saleswoman said “I can show you more,” and she opened a door to a back room that was packed, ceiling to floor, with silk, satin and sparkles in every style, every color. We were totally overwhelmed. I didn’t want to go through that again. After a little research and thought, all three of us decided to wear dresses we already owned. After all, we reasoned, we’re Americans and we need to just be ourselves.

We couldn't resist sampling the dates at Zadina

The other question was whether to bring a gift. On that, we got conflicting information. Yes, a small gift is ok, we heard. So Lucy and I bought a modest but beautiful gift of assorted chocolate coated and nut stuffed dates on a gold platter. But when Tom saw it he said “No! You can’t give a gift, even a small one. It’s an insult. They are showing their hospitality to us, not the other way around.” Whatever – we tasted the dates in the shop where we bought them and, to be honest, it wouldn’t have killed me to have to eat them ourselves. And we all would have wanted to keep the pretty gold platter.

Aida gave us some tips on
Emirati weddings

The day before the wedding, Lucy and I went to an American Women’s Association coffee at Café Arabia, a lovely coffee shop in a villa about half way between our compound and Lucy and Tom’s. AWN holds coffees twice a month; there is usually a guest speaker and this week it was Aida Mansour, the Lebanese owner of the café. Bubbly and charming, Aida did a cooking demonstration and chattered about food and life in the UAE. As things wound down, Lucy and I got a chance to ask her if she had ever been to an Emirati wedding. “Yes,” she said, “many times.” Aida confirmed our feeling that we should wear what was comfortable for us, and she told us what it would be like – play by play.

Ras Al Khaimeh, where the wedding was held, is about three hours from Abu Dhabi, in the northeastern UAE near the Straits of Hormuz. Mark had come up with the very wise idea of getting rooms at the Ras Al Khaimeh Hotel for the night; the wedding didn’t even start until 8:30 p.m. The guys, wearing coats and ties, went down to the lobby to meet Saeed, who is Tom’s deputy at work and is our group’s Emirati ambassador, of sorts. Saeed would escort us to the wedding along with his two oldest sons, who are fifteen and eight. We were expecting Saeed’s wife to be there to act as our guide at the women’s party, but she was recovering from a sore throat.

The Corniche Wedding Hall is impressive

We followed Saeed’s SUV to the Corniche Wedding Hall, where a sea of men in snow-white kanduras was gathered outside. We felt the excitement in the air like electricity. The wedding hall is two identical halls in the same building. One side is for the women and the other for the men. The guys escorted us to the women’s side and we entered the outer reception room where we were offered oud – first from a burner, then oil. We accepted both. I did a little research on http://www.grapeshisha.com/about-uae/arabic-perfume.html, and I learned that oud can be extremely costly. The smoke form is often preferred by Arabs, especially men who don’t want to get oil on their crisp white kanduras. We waved some smoke onto ourselves and put the oil on our wrists.

The bride's mother greeted us
wearing a gown similar to this one.

There was a receiving line. We had shaken only a couple of hands when a beautiful woman in a glittering yellow gown approached us. “Our husbands were invited by Yaqoob,” I said into her ear. She nodded. “I am Yaqoob.” She was the mother of the bride, rushing to greet us as we entered the room. We offered our date platter, which she graciously accepted. We have since learned that Zadina, the shop where we purchased the dates, is owned by the royal al Nahyan family, and their dates are the very best.

Yaqoob’s wife instructed a lovely young woman, her second daughter, to show us to a table. We sat down, Deb between Lucy and me, and we must have looked like three schoolgirls putting our heads together, looking around and talking about what we saw.  Everything was a feast for the eyes. Fifty round tables were set on either side of a runway that led from an elevator to an elaborately decorated stage holding an oversized plush white satin and velvet sofa with a dozen or more pillows. Everywhere we looked, on each table and scattered around the hall, were huge arrangements of white roses.  Each table had its own wedding cake on a pedestal. Everything was silver, gold, and white. Everything and everyone glittered.

The gowns were similar to this: stunning

The gowns were amazing; it was like being at a Hollywood event. The first one to catch the eye of all three of us was a pink gown that looked like it could have been made of frosting – the bodice was all whorls of fabric that looked like roses, melting into a chiffon skirt. There were many others, but there were also many women who didn’t remove their abayas for the entire evening, and some even wore their face scarves. Soon our table was filled by eight of these more conservatively dressed women. Most of them didn’t speak much English but I was lucky enough to sit next to someone who understood a lot of my questions.

I asked about photography. I had talked with Aida about it, and asked Yaqoob’s wife as well. I was still confused. Can you take photos? No, no, yes, yes, it’s OK, but only of you. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to take photos of just us, without worrying that I was breaking a rule or committing an offense. Aida had said that she took photos of her table at a wedding once and someone had complained. I looked around and nobody was taking any photos, even of themselves and their friends, although many of the young women in beautiful dresses had cell phones. I wanted more than anything to take photos of everything I saw, yet I felt even more powerfully that I was in a powder keg and my camera was a match. So I took no photos, not a single one.

The table was set with hommous, bread, and salads. Immediately, beverages were coming: trays of coffee, tea, and juices. More food was served, starting with sweets; this was a surprise. The most interesting was a sticky orange candy. Then hot appetizer pastries stuffed with meat or cheese were served. There was a thick, soupy oniony pudding-type dish that was very popular with everyone; people gobbled it up. Then, platters of meat on beds of rice: chicken, lamb, beef, and goat. The food kept coming and coming: fries, fish sticks, vegetables. The guys said they had a delicious meat which Mark had several helpings of that they found out later was camel meat. I don’t think we had that one at our table, but nobody is sure. The woman sitting next to Lucy kept heaping food onto Lucy’s plate, which was very funny to watch. When it came time for the cake, she grabbed Lucy’s plate, scraped it off onto another dish, and dished her portion that was about a third of the whole cake.

Wedding chocolates.

All this time, servers were bringing around platters of wrapped chocolates; I had seen these platters in stores and specialty shops. The woman next to me plucked one from the tray, then another, three, four, six. Ok, I get it! Each time the tray came around, and it kept coming, we took several and stashed them in our purses. They were rich and creamy chocolate which tasted great later when we debriefed with the guys over a beverage.

There were gifts for each guest. Each place setting had a CD of the Holy Quran, and later the servers gave out bottles of scented water. “For the bed,” my friend in the next seat told me. “Spray it on the pillow.” The woman next to Lucy said something, and the whole table began to giggle. “Did she talk about husbands?” I guessed. Yes. “She has no husband; she said it should come with one.” We all laughed.

During dinner a young woman played a violin to recorded music. Yaqoob’s wife and daughter came often to check on us, making sure that we were comfortable and our needs were met. We were so touched by their graciousness. I asked about the other children, and she brought them over and introduced them: little girls in white dresses, and a small boy in a suit. The other boys were probably with the men. All evening, she was holding her cell phone and talking into a little microphone, choreographing the event.

The bride descended in theglass elevator

We heard an ululating sound similar to the one we used to make when playing cowboys and Indians as kids. This is traditional at Arab celebrations, particularly weddings. We all looked up as the bride emerged onto the balcony; she was alone, as is traditional. Her dress was a beautiful traditional white bridal gown with a very long train; she wore a tiara.  Professional photographers were the only ones taking photos. There was a large video camera on a boom, and three or four still photographers. Every few steps the bride stopped while attendants adjusted her train and photos were taken. When she reached the glass elevator she stood in it for several moments, and she reminded me of a beautiful doll in a glass case. Then the elevator descended and she slowly proceeded up the runway to the stage, stopping every few moments while attendants placed lit sparklers in the flower arrangements on either side, and rose petals were showered over her. She stood on the stage for a long time, and finally sat down on the couch. What a spectacle!

For the next hour or so, photos were taken with family members and friends. The couch was big enough to hold about a dozen adult sized people, so even with all of her little sisters and cousins there was plenty of space. The young women in their spectacular dresses joined the bride for photos; those girls had obviously been practicing posing. They looked just like models or movie stars.

We went back the next morning and
were allowed inside to take photos

All of this was proceeding exactly as Aida had described; it was very helpful that we knew what was happening. Finally the music stopped and a male voice began speaking, in Arabic of course, over the sound system. Is the groom coming? Yes. Suddenly all of our table companions stood up and put on their shaylas. Are you leaving? Yes! You don’t want to see men? No! And they were gone. We looked around; a lot of other women were leaving as well. Again, Yaqoob’s wife came to check on us, and she and her daughter came and sat at our table. The excitement was building, and we had the honor of the bride’s mother sitting at our table. She was beautifully composed, but we could see the emotion.

The groom’s entrance was just as much of a spectacle as the bride’s. Several young boys – perhaps the groom’s brothers and cousins – danced and twirled batons. Then the groom came up the runway with the fathers on either side. They all stood facing the guests, the groom and the fathers shook hands, and the groom took his place next to the bride.

Thus they were married.

It was time to leave, but not before we had our photos taken. In a separate room off of the outer reception room, we each posed for a photographer, first seated on a settee and then standing in front of a backdrop. Our two gracious hostesses accompanied us, and they posed for a group photo with us. What amazing hospitality. Yaqoob’s wife said, “I will send you the pictures, inshallah (if God is willing.)”

UPDATE 6/19/2012 We have received the photos you see below.
Still hoping to get pictures of the bride, inshallah.

We got the "red carpet" treatment.

We were giddy as we stumbled out the door on our high heels to meet the guys. And that was without a drop of alcohol! How was it? Unbelievable! What about you? Ours was pretty unbelievable too. Did you eat the camel meat? I think I speak for everyone when I say we won’t ever forget that wedding.

Yaqoob has assured Mark that we will get the wedding photos and when we do, I will update this post to include them, inshallah.

Camel Festival

Dune Bashing in a Ford 500

These camels were probably wondering
what we were doing out there.

I was bound and determined to get to the Al Dhafra Camel Festival in the Western region, a two-hour drive from Abu Dhabi. The American Women’s Network organized a day trip on a bus, but I inadvertently sent the notice to my spam folder so I was unaware. Plus, maybe somewhere in my not-so-subconscious I wanted a little more flexibility and adventure.

The day after the AWN trip Patti, who I met at a coffee and whose husband is also on Mark’s project, called to tell me about it.  “You might be overwhelmed,” she said. “It’s huge, and everything is spread out.” She told me about how their day was, with pre-planned events and lunch and dinner – she didn’t get home till midnight. I took this all in, but it didn’t discourage me from going; it had the opposite effect. Yet I knew that I couldn’t just go out there by myself but the timing wasn’t working out for Mark to be able to go, and Deb was busy with other things.

Enter Terry Mercer and her family. At the last minute I occupied the empty seat in their Ford 500 with Terry, her husband Peter, and their 20-something sons, Christopher and Ty. I had only met Terry a couple of times and had never met the rest of her family. Terry is American, from Florida, a fellow photographer, and I knew the minute I met her and observed her scooting around and focusing her giant lens at the Fairmont Bab Al Bahr chocolate event (which I only posted on Facebook, and didn’t do a whole blog about) that we could be great friends.

We followed the flags, our first mistake.

We headed west into the desert and as we neared the town of Madinat Zayed, we began to see signs about the festival. They were all in Arabic; we were not in expat-friendly Abu Dhabi any more. Not really knowing where the festival was, we drove on. Finally we came to the festival area, a desert landscape dotted with tents, flags, and signage in indecipherable Arabic.

We wanted to see camel races. “Which way to the camel races?” we asked anyone who would look at us. All we got was a shrug and shake of the head, an answer in Arabic that we could not comprehend, or a wave down the road. So down the road we went.

A roundabout! Now we're getting somewhere! Not.

All around us we saw what looked like pavilions surrounded by flags. I think everyone in the car wanted to be the one to spot what we were looking for. Somehow, and I don’t know how, we got off the paved road and found ourselves driving on a gravelly, sandy surface. We made our way to a big, important looking roundabout but when we got there, it didn’t go anywhere. We chose a direction that looked correct. Soon there were tracks everywhere except where we were actually driving. By this time we were committed, and headed toward one tent, and then another. Every place we got near turned out to be smaller than it had looked; not what we were looking for. Finally we spotted a large pavilion: that must be it! But all that was between it and us was sand. And all that was between us and the last paved road: you guessed it. Sand.

Nobody is sure how we got off the main road.

You can imagine what the conversation could become with two young adult males and their parents in a small car trying to find a road in the sand. I am still wondering if it only stayed so civil because I (a complete stranger) was in the vehicle.

How do you say "stuck" in Arabic? You don't need to.

Before long what Terry’s husband predicted occurred: we were stuck.

If you have been reading this blog for awhile you might have noticed that sometimes I tend to be lucky. Based on past experience I refused to panic or let myself think that this would turn our badly, even though Mark and I were supposed to leave for Oman early the next day and I was starting to formulate my explanation. I looked to the right, and I could see cars driving by on a road about 100 meters away, toward the giant pavilion that was our new destination. So we were driving on the sand, parallel to the real road. Good news, we are not in the middle of nowhere. Bad news, we can be seen by everyone driving past on their way to the event and we look like . . . well, never mind.

There was no shortage of opinions.

Why didn't we think of that? Oh yeah, Ty did. Oh well.

Soon a little pickup truck sped up, with one guy in it. After speaking and gesturing he sped off again, presumably to get help. No sooner was he gone than several more vehicles arrived. The young men jumped out, assessed the situation, and told us through words and gestures that we had to let the air out of the tires. Which, by the way, Terry and Peter’s younger son Ty had been saying all along; he has worked as a lifeguard on the beach in Florida. And also, in the midst of this, I had gotten a phone call from Mark and he said to do the same thing. Don’t worry, Honey, everything us under control!

Young men are the same everywhere, I thought, as I watched our new friends confer and jockey for position; everyone wanted an important role in the rescue. They let the air out of the tires, pushed our Ford 500 sedan out of the depression it was in, and offered to drive us out. Christopher got into a pickup while one of the Arab guys drove our Ford 500. Suddenly our driver started speaking and gesturing, and we thought he was asking for water. No, he was asking if we were thirsty. No, we are good, we have water. Then someone said the magic word, “coffee.” We were being invited to partake in the legendary Arab hospitality that I had been reading about: we were invited to their tent!

These guys love their pickups.

But Christopher, in his pickup, had sped off in the other direction, toward the pavilion. This made Terry worry: “My son is going the other way! Are they coming too?” Even though Christopher is in law school, and is a veteran of Iraq, momma bear Terry was protecting him.

To Terry’s relief, we arrived at the tent the same time as Christopher’s pickup. We were ushered into a huge tent, with about a hundred red plush upholstered chairs lining the walls. One of the Arabs walked to the center of the back wall, sat, and indicated to us to also sit. In front of us on a low table was a basket of fruit exactly like the ones I have seen for sale many times at the Mina fruit and vegetable market.

We were treated to delicious beverages,
dates, and fresh fruit . . .

We were treated first to coffee. I think that this was a beverage that I have read about which isn’t really coffee but a hot beverage made with cardamom. It’s very spicy. The young man who poured it came out next with trays of dates; they were very sugary-sweet. We were encouraged to take a piece of fruit, and then the young man announced that he was bringing “chai.” And he brought out a pot of delicious, sweetened chai tea.

The Arabs didn’t speak English so we were comfortable comparing notes among us about what was happening and how to act. Soon everyone agreed that they would keep pouring until you shook your cup to indicate that you were finished; that you needed to eat with your right hand only; and that you should not cross your legs and show the bottom of your feet; we had heard that’s disrespectful.

. . . but when things got silly . . .

We asked if it was OK to take photos; oh, yes! We took lots of photos, and our hosts took some photos of us with our cameras. Our head host acted surprisingly informal and soon began clowning for the camera, borrowing sunglasses and placing his ghutra on my head as we posed for pictures. He insisted that I put my arm around his shoulder, which surprised me but I cooperated. As time went on things seemed to get a little bit too frivolous; I began to think that maybe I was about to get a new husband. It’s a good thing I was part of an entourage!

I was glad Pete, Terry and sons were there.

Seconds later there was a scramble.

At that point they decided to take us outside and show us their camels. First we looked at the sheep in the pen. As we stood there, one of the sheep suddenly, somehow, squeezed through a little gap in the metal and began running away! Ty, who was closest to the sheep, was berated by one of the Arabs; why didn’t he do something? They managed to catch the animal and throw it back into the pen.

These pots are big enough to cook a goat in.

Suddenly a large SUV drove up, and a stately and impressive Arab got out. Our head host melted into the background, and we were ushered toward this new, important person, who spoke good English. We told him what had happened, and how we appreciated the rescue and the hospitality. He told us that the camels, the tent, and everything in the camp belonged to the King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia.

You can tell who's important by how they conduct themselves.
Plus, they usually speak English.

It was time to go. We thanked everyone, and as we left we said “B-bye!” to the little boys that had appeared. “B-bye! b-bye!” they called back.

As we drove away, marveling at our cluelessness and how it had landed us in the tent of the King of Saudi Arabia, we knew that we needed to re-inflate our tires.

Oh, yeah. We can't drive on this one any more.

Then we noticed that one of our tires was making an awful lot of noise. Yes, we were driving on a flat tire and, by the time we got to the paved road, it was shredded. Peter and the boys changed the tire while Terry and I walked down the road to see if we could find out how to get the others re-inflated. As it turned out, the police came by to help and they inflated the tires. Now we had four tires to drive on, but no spare.

Were we ready to call it a day? Heck, no! We hadn’t seen the camel race yet!

We headed for the pavilion and as we got near, we marveled at how we had gotten off course. Today’s lesson: stay on the paved road.

We decided not to sit with the sheikhs.

We parked in the lot and approached the arena entrance, not sure whether there was a fee, or how the seating was organized. Would there be special seating for us expats? Nobody spoke to us; they just stood by and indicated for us to pass through.

But we ended up with great seats anyway.

As we entered, we realized we were in the VIP area. Instead of the bleachers we expected to see, we were surrounded by plush gold armchairs set before gold gilt tea tables, with servers carrying trays of coffee pots and dates. Not an expat or woman was in sight; only men in kanduras and ghutras. There was the stage, and a podium. Even though nobody gave us a second look, we were sure this was not for us, so we went to anther entrance, and sat in the next section. We didn’t have tables, but we were served coffee anyway.

It's a big thrill to win; they put on a satin cloak . . .

Soon we came to realize that we had made it just in time for the announcement of the day’s winners of the Camel Beauty Contest. What luck! A number of officials took their places onstage around the podium, and although we couldn’t understand a word of what was said, we could hear the cheers and see the ghutras being tossed into the air as the winners were announced.

. . . and tie their ghutras around
the camel's neck.

Again, we weren’t sure whether we would be allowed near the camels. And again, the gates were magically opened for us as Terry and I approached with our cameras. The winning teams placed satin banners on the camel beauties, and they all paraded and celebrated.

The winners danced in celebration

We had just enough time to check out the souk tents, which were in two areas. One area, along the road, sold essential goods and sundries for the camel herders: pots and pans, lamps, fuel, tools and equipment, bedding, generators, jerry cans . . . anything they might need.

If we were stranded overnight,
we could have bought bedrolls.

In another area craftsmen and women in abayas and face masks were selling baskets, incense, textiles, and other souvenirs. Terry and Peter got into a long conversation with an unmasked woman who spoke very good English; she told us proudly that her son had married an Australian woman. She sold them an incense burner.

Food was available in both places: huge pots containing a mixture of either noodles or rice, mixed with meat and vegetables, flavored with spices and tomato paste. They also had cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and meat called malfoof, and a fried doughy ball called awwameh made with flour, potatoes, and yeast, similar to a doughnut hole, topped with sesame seeds and a not-too-sweet syrup.

It was getting dark, and we were ready to head home, driving with no spare tire. I called Mark to let him know, and warned him that if anything else happened he might have to come and get us. He told us not to drive too fast on the tubeless spare, although he knows how difficult that is: here, cars come roaring up behind you on the highway and, if you don’t get out of their way, they are passing you on the shoulder to your left and squeezing you into the next lane, where there is usually a large truck. To avoid this, you have to be constantly mashing on the gas pedal as they come up behind you, and ducking into the right lane.

But that’s another blog . . .

Stay tuned for the story of the Emirati wedding and day after. How lucky we are to have an opportunity to get to know these interesting people and seeing how they live.



There were camels everywhere.

The winner. Isn't she (or he?) gorgeous?