Last
night I caught the overnight flight from Melbourne to Dubai. It was not a good
journey. I was at the back of the plane in the cheap seats, squeezed next to a
stocky man who, despite his best efforts, struggled to contain himself within
his allotted seat space. Every time one of us dropped off the other person
would wriggle and we would both be awake. I have a sneaky feeling that
eventually we gently snuggled into each other and drifted off, but I prefer not
to think about this too much. It was the start of a day of male bonding.
I landed
in Dubai feeling fairly groggy at about 8am. After a bit of haggling I
secured myself a taxi for the day and proceeded to my various meetings. Over
the day my driver, Shaniker, and I developed a great camaraderie. It is Ramadan
and he, like almost everyone in the region, is fasting during daylight. As we
travelled from Dubai to Abu Dhabi he shared with me his fasting stories. The
Ramadan fast is truly nil-by-mouth, which excludes food and water
(and I learnt from my new best friend, cigarettes). Not that I had a lot of
choice since no shops were open and no one offered any refreshments in the
meetings but I decided to join Shaniker in the day of fasting. Our bonding was
a two-way process. Shaniker quickly picked up on my obsession with scoring each
meeting I attend out of 10. He would enthusiastically quiz me on how things had
gone. If nothing else it kept both our minds off the growing aching hunger as
the day progressed. Such was our bonding that tomorrow Shaniker has agreed to
repeat the exercise, being my driver to get be back to Dubai and on to Sharjah
for the last set of meetings before I finally return home.
The highlight
of today however was this evening. The Ramadan fast breaks with an Iftar feast
at sundown, around 720pm. I had been invited to a post-Iftar meeting at the
private residence of one of the senior directors of the Abu Dhabi Environment
Agency. I arrived at 930pm a little unsure of what the evening would entail. I arrived
with a big box of Ferrero Roche chocolates, bought somewhat hastily at my hotel
gift shop. That advert from the 1980s is to blame.
I was shown
into a huge, luxuriously decorated lounge with cushions and loungers spread
across the floor. As the night
wore on various neighbours and friends visited, staying for 30 minutes or so.
Laughter is the best word to describe the evening. Collectively we did our best
to put the world to rights, debating the various merits of groundwater over
rainwater, or how to resolve the increasing salinity in the Arabian Gulf, or what
to do with the growing mountain of 40 million used car tyres in the desert (any
suggestions welcome by the way). There were fresh dates, home-made cakes and
unlimited amounts of Red Tea and Arabic coffee. There was even homemade trifle.
It really was like Christmas (just without the snow, the Christmas tree or the in-laws).
When I left at
1am I was embraced like a brother, with an invitation from the patriarchal
grandfather who hosted the night that on my next visit we must meet at his
farm. He claims the water is better there than in London. I suspect
international etiquette will demand I agree.
It
is now just past 130am. I have a few short hours before Shaniker arrives to collect
me. The caffeine coursing through my veins means tonight will be another fitful
night (how does any one drink more than one cup of Arabic coffee without
getting the shakes?). But it has been a good day of male bonding. I have enjoyed
every minute, but I want to go home now. Male bonding is good, but it only goes
so far. It is time now to see my wife.
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