Dune Bashing, Belly Dancing
That afternoon the customary Dubai experience beckons – dune bashing. When we leave the metropolis behind, the first
rudiments of sand dunes are upon us. Stretching infinitely on both sides of the
tarmac, the dunes represent the north-eastern fringes of the Rub’ al Khali. This is known more
famously in the English speaking world as The Empty Quarter. The Arabic name
and the English translation are both fine monikers, conveying a nihilistic desolation.
The place is an immense nowhere, supposedly the largest contiguous sand desert
in the world covering most of Southern Saudi Arabia, Yemen, the UAE and Oman.
With such credentials, it adds much to the Arabian mystique. Yore and
fable have only enhanced its legend; there are tales of lost cities (Iram,
Ubar) that have been swallowed by the sands around them, making them the desert
equivalents of Atlantis. Yet this earthly black hole is also home to the
Bedouin who have somehow been weaving their way through its dunes and wādis for
longer than anyone can remember. Their nomadic life, though on the wane,
continues today. No discussion of the Rub’
al Khali or the Bedouin is complete without mention of Wilfred Thesiger. An
Englishman born in Ethiopia and a war veteran turned explorer, his fascination
for places untouched by the motor vehicle led him to an epic journey across the
Empty Quarter in the 40’s. He chronicled the dwindling ways of the Bedouin and
his account, Arabian Sands, together
with Eric Newby’s A Short Walk in the
Hindu Kush, launched modern travel writing. It is one I am currently
perusing.
Presently, atop a sand dune, I vacillate between two scenes. Behind me
are groups of tourists, an armada of SUVs lined up in conquering poise, a bevy
of cameras and the general chatter of tourism. We have arrived here thus: the
customary halt at the shop of miscellanea before we leave conveniences behind
for good and a brief showcase of four-wheel drive before we stop for the photo
session. At a reunion, posed photos have more purpose for the act of herding
together into a frame is the reunion itself in miniature form, people from
disparate timelines sharing a moment in time. I can’t recall a more enjoyable
one in a long time. The photos reflect the bonhomie to the extent that we
purchase a couple from the tourist outfit, something we normally shun. We are
firm in denial to other tourist claptrap though. For instance, a falconer approaching
us with a blindfolded falcon is turned down without as much as a second glance.
The second scene, ahead of me, is the Empty Quarter. Try hard enough
and one can always lose the rest in a flight of fancy. Synesthesites must do
this all the time. A black-and-white chequered keffiyeh wrapped around my head,
less a concession to the heat and more an accessory worn in tourist jest, helps
me feel the part. For a few fleeting moments, I am alone with the Arabian
triumvirate - sun, sand and sky. As gusts of wind blow sand all around me, I am
momentarily unnerved by the depth of feeling the desert evokes. Love of the
desert is irrational, as the adage goes. There are no logical pointers as to
why some people are enthralled by these waterless seas. While this is only a
moment stolen in a planned itinerary, I briefly flirt with the idea of being a
Thesiger and embracing the desert, warts and all.
Minutes later, as the SUV is pounding its way up and down this Arabian
roller-coaster, I am part of the shared experience again. I suppose journeys
are thus; one moves between parallel worlds. Pushpa lets out peals of laughter
that alternate between genuineness and mockery. Her general effect on the rest
of the family is such that we are quickly galvanized into mirth and half-derision
too. Eventually, the pounders make for tarmac again in a manner reminiscent of
a meeting concluded between rival gangs. I am forced to delay ours a wee bit by
a mounting sense of nausea. Nestled into the back seat of an SUV seat, a static
trunk and haunches are prime fodder for food to be tossed around inside.
Our ride stops at a fenced camp where there is more bundling of
touristy things. There are samosas on offer and Arabian dining seating
recreated alfresco around a makeshift stage. Little stores offer alcohol (in
Arabia it must be more apt to say alcohol instead of liquor) and souvenirs. Short
camel saunters are made available. An enclosure tucked away from prying eyes
has a group of twenty-something Tamils sampling the Hookah. In a truly bizarre
addition to this motley set, there is a screen on to which is projected,
without much notice, a video of us in the act of posing for photos amidst the
dunes! It continues in the same vein, capturing all and sundry for everyone
present to see. We are both amused and embarrassed by this. Dinner is a
typically Indian affair (given the clientele) with two Levantine inclusions: Tabbouleh - a mishmash of Bulgur (Durum
Wheat), Tomatoes and Parsley - that bears a resemblance to the Maharashtrian Poha, and Fattoush, a salad with Pita bread as its mainstay.
After dinner, the stage is the cynosure of all eyes. The first
performance is my introduction to the Tanoura,
a variant of the whirling Sufi dance, the key difference being the
multi-coloured skirt worn by the sole male dancer. The music is played at a
rapid tempo to which the dancer whirls, causing the skirt to swirl, and the
colours to blur and intermingle rapidly, creating an arresting spectacle. The
second performance is the belly dance or more appropriately, the Raqs Sharqi. While the allure of the
dancer is what holds my attention for the most part, I eventually start to
notice the lightness of her feet and how they are often held in stiletto position.
Like the Tanoura, this is another
dance form that emphasizes circular and elliptical motion. There is very little
by way of leg or arm movement, indeed they are held in light balance to
facilitate torso and belly movements. Cams is rapt with academic attention; she
later reveals that her Danish friends have pointed out similarities between Raqs Sharqi and Odissi (something she has pursued for five years now)!
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