“You’re asking me to go out all the time now ya Sara and I don’t like it. Spend some time at home. Learn how to cook. Be useful,” Baba said after I asked him if I could go out on Monday for the whole day. “And every time with Heba. Why can’t you make friends with the amus’ daughters?”
“I don’t have anything in common with them,” I replied quietly, not wanting to say the truth.
The one time I’d been forced into an Eid gathering with his friends’ wives and daughters, I was bored out of my brain. I knew if I told Baba that it would piss him off and then he’d say no.
“It’s the last week before the new semester starts, and it’s my final semester Baba. After this week I won’t be able to go out as much anyway with all my final essays and exams coming up.”
He went quiet and picked up his book on Islamic law. “Fine, go.”
Since I’d broken up with Fahad, who used to supply me with phone credit, I had to be a lot more careful about how many text messages I sent. I didn’t want to spend all my monthly allowance on credit for Heba’s mobile phone.
ME: I can spend the whole day with you on Monday!!!
NAWAF: Excellent news! I’ll pick you up from that same mall at 10am.
I won’t lie. I was nervous about travelling so far with a guy. On Sunday, I spent most of the day sat on the sofa watching TV, but not actually focusing on it. Should I go? Or should I cancel?
I tried to suppress my anxiety. I told myself it would be a fun day out and that I should take this opportunity. I may not get the chance to go camping in the desert again.
*
Nawaf was dressed in Western clothes when he came to pick me up from the local mall. He was wearing off-white linen shorts and a baby blue T-shirt that said California Dreamin’ with a picture of a sunset printed on the front; the type of T-shirt you see in American road trip movies.
Out of his thowb he looked even taller and broader. I didn’t feel like I was dressed in the right clothes for an outdoor adventure. I was wearing long, wide black trousers under my abaya and a short-sleeved tunic which had a geometric blue, black and white print. The fabric of the tunic was slightly sheer and it had a low plunging neckline. It was perhaps one of the most revealing items I had in my wardrobe, but with my abaya over the top, no one would have ever known. I was wearing the same bat-wing abaya with fake pearl beads that I’d worn for lunch with Nawaf the week before.
He’d brought a gold Lexus four-wheeler this time instead of his sporty Range Rover. It took almost two hours to reach the campsite. I was excited imagining Bedouin-style tents, the ones that were made from that heavy black fabric with horizontal beige stripes, and those red and black patterned floor cushions, like the ones Fahad had in his majlis.
Before we got to the sandy part, where the desert began, we had to stop at a petrol station, where a couple of Indian labourers dressed in orange boiler suits let air out of Nawaf’s car tyres so he could ride over the sand. I, of course, had my ghishwa on, and they paid no attention to me.
Once the tyres were ready and Nawaf had pressed a few notes of money into the men’s hands through his open window, we set off into the desert. The car bumped up and down. The wooden tasbeeh beads he’d hung around the front-view mirror kept hitting the windscreen every time we went over a bump.
I looked at the barren landscape around me as the Saudi Arabian singer Rashed Al-Majed serenaded us from the car’s loudspeakers. We passed towering sand dunes on the way.
I saw a group of quad bikes racing up and down the dunes. The young Gulf men who were riding them had their thowbs hoisted up to their waists, dark sunglasses on and ghutras wrapped around their faces like face veils.
Half an hour later I saw a group of tents ahead of us, enclosed by a tall wire fence.
An Indian man sat on a white plastic chair at the gated entrance of the campsite. When we approached he immediately stood up and said, “Salam alaik ya sheikh,” Arabic for “Peace be upon you oh sheikh,” before unlocking the gate and opening it so that Nawaf could drive inside.
“Are Saddam and Fairous here?” Nawaf asked him.
“Yes sir, they’re already in the kitchen preparing lunch,” the gatekeeper replied.
The kitchen?
It turned out that these weren’t the old-school Bedouin tents I’d imagined. From the outside they looked ordinary enough. They were huge, rectangular, beige tents with flaps that worked as doors, with strings you tied through metal holes in order to close them. There were five of them arranged in a semi-circle, and then a small raised cabin with steps, which was a short distance away from the tents was a bathroom.
The tent on the far right was the kitchen and the largest tent, which was next to the kitchen, was the living room. Two medium-sized tents to the left of the living room were bedrooms and the fifth tent, on the far left and slightly removed from the others, was where the manservants slept.
We got out of the car and I followed Nawaf towards the main tent. He took his trainers off just outside the tent’s entrance and left them on a little rug of artificial green grass, and I did the same with my ballerina flats. He untied the strings on the metal loopholes, lifted up the heavy beige flap and allowed me to go inside first before following in after me and tying the strings shut.
Instead of the typical black and red floor cushions and red rugs, a staple in most Gulf tents and majlises, this tent was elegantly set out with champagne-coloured floor sofas set in wooden frames and arranged in an L shape along the back and left sides of the tent. Off-white cushions and armrests were propped up along the sofas. Several glass coffee tables were positioned in front of the sofas, laden with silver bowls containing expensive, wrapped chocolates and an assortment of nuts and fruit.
To the right of the tent was a massive flat-screen TV and three different games consoles. Several Moroccan pouffes were laid out in a semi-circle in front of the TV. Two big, plush, beige rugs covered the entire length of the sandy floor.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s lovely. I wish my family had this. Do you use it much?”
“My brothers come here with their friends during the weeknights and the women come with the kids and stay here on the weekends,” Nawaf explained, sitting down on to one of the Moroccan pouffes and switching on the big portable air-conditioning unit with a remote control. He switched on the TV and put on a music channel. Mohammed Abdu was singing.
I took off my black shayla and let it rest on my shoulders, but kept my abaya on. Nawaf noticed.
“You don’t need to wear your abaya in here. No one will come in unless I call them,” Nawaf said. “Take it off.”
“I’m good,” I replied.
“It’s up to you,” he said, shrugging. He stood up and walked to the flap at the entrance of the tent, and untied the strings again. “Put your shayla and shoes back on. Let’s take the car for a ride on the dunes before lunch.”
Back in his car, we set off towards the sand dunes. As we approached the bottom of the first dune he stopped, turned to me and asked, “Are you ready?” before he shifted the car gear, pushed his foot down hard on the gas pedal and we sped up to the top of the dune.
I was terrified that we would roll backwards or topple off the top of the dune and the car would flip over. As we reached the top of the dune, I felt like I was on a rollercoaster, when you can see the sharp drop below you. Nawaf knew what he was doing because we sped smoothly down the dune and back onto the flat sandy area. I gripped the handle at the top of the passenger side window with both hands.
“Are you ready for the next one?” he asked.
I just wanted to get back to the tent in one piece. I nodded.
We went up the next dune, which was even higher than that last one, but thankfully not as steep. However, mid-way down, the car got stuck in the sand. Nawaf pushed and pushed on the gas pedal, but all we could hear were the car wheels turning furiously in the sand, the car not moving an inch.
He sighed and got out of the car to take a look.
“There’s too much sand under the back wheels,” he shouted to me, “I’m going to need help.”
“Am I going to have to stay here on my own?” I asked.
“I won’t be long. Just keep the doors locked. There are lots of young men, around, one of them will be able to help,” he said, and off he went.
Well, this date was turning out great.
I didn’t have to wait long. A black Land Cruiser approached, with Nawaf in the passenger seat, and another Gulf guy driving.
The man parked his car in front on a flatter patch of sand. I took the end of my shayla and covered my face.
The man opened the boot of the car and took out a huge piece of heavy-duty fabric cable, tying one end to the bottom of the back of his Land Cruiser and the other end to the bottom of the front of Nawaf’s four-wheeler. They exchanged some words and Nawaf got back into the car with me.
“See, I told you I would find one of the shabaab to help.” He grinned.
The man got into his car, stuck his arm out of the car window and signalled at Nawaf to get ready. Nawaf switched on the engine, and again the car wheels turned furiously in their place. Slowly we were being pulled out of the sand and down towards the flat area.
Nawaf descended from the car, untied the cable and gave it back to the man, and they shook hands.
“I think that’s enough excitement for today,” Nawaf said, when he got back into the car. “Let’s get some food.”