Desert Storm

A long convoy of flimsy, American-rented Toyota Yaris’s, interspersed with expensive Emerati-owned vehicles, wended its way toward the heart of the desert flanking Dubai. After a short stop to park and reshuffle our belongings, our motley crew resorted ourselves into an assortment of luxury SUV’s and powerful pick up-trucks. Turning off the blacktop and onto sandy roads, we resumed our trip. Cars packed with people and camping gear bounced along. Occasionally, an errant sleeping bag would fly out of a truck bed, and a passenger from a following car would hop out, pluck it up from its sandy resting place, and pop it into the back of another vehicle. Sorting out our belongings once we reached the camping site would later prove to be a challenge.

We were a consortium of Americans, Tunisians, Emeratis, and Kiwis, all gathered here for the sole purpose of having an authentic desert camping trip together. Our primary host, a dashing, and extremely generous Emerati named Atef, was determined to provide his guests with an authentic Emerati camping experience. Other Emeratis supporting the trip were Essa, husband of Donna, our RAK American School Vice Principal and Kindergarten teacher, Saeed, and another friend and driver for the group, Ahmed. All four men were friends, conspiring to show American teachers overseas a true desert . Also along were Arabic teacher and Tunisian, Wafa, her soft-spoken husband Bashar, and their six-year-old son, Yousef. A professed eremikophobe (fearer of sand), Wafa had never been desert camping before, but was determined to be a good sport, and spend a night outside. The rest of us were our usual mishmash of Americans and lone Canadian, along for the ride, and with varying degrees of desert compatibility and prior camping experience.

Once we reached our campsite, a low, flat wash surrounded by higher dunes, our hosts rounded the SUV’s, much like the circling of the wagons in early American westward expansion. “This is to protect you from dune-bashing vehicles, “ explained Essa, our resident Emerati, in his impeccable English. We would look to him frequently during this experience as our cultural and linguistic translator. I imagined waking up in my sleeping bag to the crushing weight of an off-course Land Cruiser smashing down onto my tent. I readily complied with Essa’s instructions to set up our tents inside the protective ring of cars.

Along with our nearly dozen tents, our hosts brought huge rugs for the group gathering, a newly purchased, rumbling generator, and a myriad of electric lights, as well as festive, mood-inducing tikki torches. As I looked around at our newly constructed campsite, I realized that no detail, and no expense had been spared in creating a comfortable, luxurious camping experience for this group of expatriates. In addition to planning a lavish dinner, our hosts had also given a polite nod to our western culture by providing us with some German beer for the event. Neena, our resident Puerto Rican American and future winner of the evening’s dance contest, would later proclaim that it was just this liquid courage that allowed us a glimpse of her slightly more provocative and renowned Shakira (I mean, Beyonce), signature dance moves.

After everyone had settled in, and tents were erected, cots constructed and sleeping bags laid out, our crew assembled around the campfire. Essa showed us how to sit in the sand like a true, tribal nomad. We contorted our legs and knees into the customary posture, and Essa regaled us with tales of his father’s desert experiences, and stories of the way the country used to look before the arrival of western people, and modernity in its present state.

Later, we were provided with a true desert meal, complete with roasted goat, head and body nestled into a plate of saffron rice, grilled lamb, and fresh salad. Donna thoughtfully provided everyone with dessert S’more’s, Emerati style, with toasted marshmallows and chocolate served on digestive biscuits. Rick Sailors entertained us by strumming on his guitar and serenading the group with a smattering of rock, pop, 80’s, blues, and folk songs, and we accompanied him, singing happily, loudly, and occasionally VERY, off key.

In another act of unsurpassed generosity, our host Atef, along with Essa and Donna, had planned a quiz night event on U.A.E. trivia, including questions such as the name of the ruling family and the date the U.A.E. was created (December 2, 1971). Atef provided a wrapped luxury gift for every participant, which we chose from a pile of gifts on the carpet. Personally, I have never excelled in trivia questionnaires. Luckily, Wafa bent down and fed my son Sam an answer to one of the questions, which he proceeded to bellow out, winning us a wall-mounted night light screen with floating water, fish and coral scenes playing on a continuous feed. Other gifts included DVD players, microwaves, and a women’s Neet Hair Removal kit, received by our perplexed, and not particularly hirsute P.E. teacher, Alan.


The last event of the evening was the bonfire dance club. One of the Emerati gents backed his SUV up to the bonfire, and people started dancing. The Sailors’ son John busted a move, along with Neena, Amanda, and sylph Casey, who was in full desert rat regalia and in rave mode, shimmying up a storm to techno beats. Sam provided a disco light aspect, by continuously gyrating two flashlights over the dance scene. At one point, Neena fell to her knees in front of her cohorts and shouted the ultimate challenge. “Get up and dance!” she screamed. “Get up and dance! I can dance better than you on my knees, B-----s!”

We slept in our tents until first light, and the sound of Essa’s welcoming voice roused us. We planned a hasty departure, and after a campfire-cooked pans of eggs and sausage and fresh coffee, we dismantled the tents and lights, packed the trucks and headed out again, just in time to miss the scorching afternoon sun and bothersome flies. We took an afternoon excursion in the cars up near the Oman border to visit the Hatta Fort Resort and to lunch on more sumptuous fare, again, courtesy of our host Atef.

Later that night, Sam and I returned to our flat in RAK. We were in bed at 7:57 p.m., too exhausted to even make dinner and eat. I fell asleep to the shimmering glow of our new picture show nightlight with two memories still playing rewind in my mind. The first was the realization that Sam and I had very nearly died today. While driving to Dubai post-camping, and in the morning after collecting our cars, we were whizzing along, returning to Essa and Donna’s villa in Dubai for a quick shower before our lunch soirée. Suddenly, Rachel, who was in my passenger seat, shrieked, “Look out!!!” We were driving about 135 km an hour, zooming along on a 5 lane highway, my Yaris manfully revving its sewing machine engine, in order to keep up with one of the SUV’s. In one instant, I saw what appeared to be an enormous, car-sized piece of foam rubber in my lane. I swerved left, narrowly missing a car and just slipped by the object, all in 1/10th of a second. As we passed it, Rachel realized it was not a piece of foam at all, but a couch that had been sitting in the center of our lane--and the Ottoman--along with the car following on our tail, had both come inches away from carving us into an accordion- shaped heap of scrap metal.

The second scene to replay in my mind as I tried to fall asleep after a full day’s worth of excitement was exactly this… After lunch, we all filed back to the parking lot to divide up into the cars for the ride back to RAK. Atef and Ahmed were in the front seats of our car, Amanda, Bethany and I were in the middle, and Rachel and Neena were in the way back of the GM Denali. Donna had commented on the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “We might just get rain, “ she said to us just before we set off. On our drive south, we eagerly scanned the horizon. Suddenly, two drops, then four, then ten splashes hit the windshield of our car. Atef turned on the windshield wipers and began to speak excitedly to Ahmed in Arabic. We squealed with excitement, all of us straining to get our hands out the window to touch the falling raindrops. I breathed in the wet smell of dampened desert that was filling the car.

But as quickly as it had begun, the short drizzle of rain was over. “It’s been a year and a month since we’ve had rain,” Ahmed told us. “How long will it be before it rains again?” asked Bethany. “Another year and a month,” he replied. Perhaps something was lost in translation, but in this part of the world, we are learning to make hay while the rain falls.

New Times Ahead...

I remember 11/00 when Al Gore lost the election. I was enormously pregnant, and so sad to see our country go downhill. 11/04 wasn't much better, with Sammy a challenging 3-year-old. We were living in Denver and I was in school to be a teacher. That time, I stayed up all night long crying, and watching the results come in, and in the morning, after I dropped Sam off at daycare, I went to the Democratic Headquarters for some consolation. Everybody there was packing up their belongings to go home. I told them how very sad and sorry I felt about the current course of events in our country. Then I got in my car, at 11 in the morning, and backed into a pole, causing $1,500 in damage to the rear door.

In the last few years I have heard the song, "And I am proud to be an American, God Bless the U.S.A.!" I have heard it with derision. What a joke, I have thought. And then today, I asked Sam if he would be willing to call Grandmom and say the same, and he did, somberly. He is a small, proud boy to have an African American in the White House, finally, at last. I am filled with gladness.