by Jean Sasson
My tears continued to flow.
Kareem whispered, “Sultana, darling, please stop crying.”
Much to Kareem’s relief, I finally managed to control my tears, but nothing could relieve my fear of what our future would hold.
Chapter Fifteen
Wadi al Jafi
Three weeks later our palace in Riyadh was bustling with excited servants as they rushed past each other. They were now finishing the chores necessary to launch our family’s excursion into the desert. Many of them were to accompany us to the desert, a rare diversion from their routine lives.
Combined with the boisterous activities of the servants were the shouts of rambunctious workmen who sweated profusely as they loaded furniture and heavy equipment onto large moving vans.
Although everyone was delighted at the prospect of spending time in the desert, members of my family are never willing to forgo our opulent life style. Accustomed to luxurious living, we have no desire to emulate the harsh living conditions endured by our desert ancestors.
Now, along with Black Bedouin tents and custom-made furniture, workmen were loading Persian carpets, silk cushions, luxurious linens, fine china, crystal glassware, silver cutlery, as well as the more mundane pots and pans. Specially designed traveling bathroom equipment, including bathtubs, toilets, and basins, waited to be packed. Once these items were loaded, the designer trunks containing our wardrobes would be packed last for easy access.
Five gas-powered generators had already been loaded into a separate truck. They would power the two solidly packed large freezers, and the three refrigerators waiting to be loaded. Two gas stoves and gas cylinders stood beside them.
Our Filipino gardeners were in charge of packing fresh food, including fruits and vegetables imported from Egypt, Jordan, and Italy.
Over one thousand bottles of Evian mineral water waited to be lifted into a separate truck. Two large tanker trucks stood ready for our departure, filled with water for cooking and bathing.
In the background, I could hear the bleats and squawks of sheep and chickens, recently delivered from the animal bazaar. After an hour of standing in the hot sun on the truck bed, these poor creatures were becoming impatient and noisy. There were some camels, too, some for riding, while some unlucky others would be prepared as a desert feast.
I made a mental note to keep the sensitive Amani as far away as possible from the area where these beasts would be slaughtered. She would be devastated if she witnessed the killing of any animal.
The previous week, Kareem had arranged for twenty-five new air-conditioned four-wheel drive vehicles to be delivered to our palace to transport our large party.
Loud and angry words rang out across the garden. One of our three Egyptian cooks was shouting obscenities at one of the kitchen apprentices.
Hawkers, the men who train and tend to Kareem’s prized falcons, were walking around the garden with their hooded charges perched on their upraised hands, protected by a leather glove, called Dasma Al Tair, because the falcon’s hooked claws are capable of ripping flesh to the bone. With their powerful eyes, long and pointed wings, strong hooked bills, and long curved talons, falcons will easily bring down desert rabbits, wild pigeons and the hubara, a large migratory bird also known as a bustard. The falcons were outfitted with a leather burqa, or hood. Specially made hawk stands, called wakar al tair, were placed around the garden. The Arabian Peninsula is one of the last places on earth where men hunt with falcons. The winter season was not yet quite over, so our husbands planned to hunt while in the desert.
In the midst of all this activity, Maha and I looked at each other in mutual understanding before we burst out laughing. The combination of all these colorful sights and clamorous noises made our garden appear as exotic as a bustling bazaar.
Even Amani began to smile, even though she was caught up in giving special instructions to a dispirited Filipino maid regarding the feeding and grooming of her numerous pets during her absence. This maid had just learned that she was one of the ten unlucky employees designated by Kareem to remain behind at our palace in Riyadh.
Although I never tire of watching such sights, I had yet to take my morning bath, so I walked back inside the palace. Considering the uncomfortable heat of the sun outside, I told one of the housemaids to pack an extra supply of sun cream.
After taking a bath and softening my skin with a thick lotion, I dressed in an ankle-length, light blue cotton dress. We Saudis dress in the desert as we do in the city, the men covered up from the intense sun by thobes, and the women by long dresses.
I then braided my long hair before laying out my veil, head scarf and abaaya. When we left our private grounds, I would be obliged to cover myself in these items of clothing.
I fingered the silky garments with a sense of dislike and dread. On trips abroad, I always gratefully discard the despised black coverings, but in Saudi Arabia, they were a hated part of my everyday life. After looking at the world minus a black screen, and breathing fresh air without a fabric filter, the veil always feels like the weight of the world falling around my body, although it is made of thin, gauzy cloth. I sighed deeply. I was a grown woman, but I was still confused by the contradictions in my life. I pushed aside these unpleasant thoughts before returning to the garden.
Those siblings and their families who would accompany us on this trip had already arrived, and when our drivers started up the engines, our large party began to crowd around the vehicles.
My sisters, Sara, Nura, Tahani, Dunia, and Haifa, rode with me in one vehicle, while our husbands rode in two other vehicles. Our children banded together into groups and commandeered their own jeeps.
After all the family members were seated, the rest of our large party jumped into the remaining vehicles.
Our much-anticipated trip was beginning at last! Just thinking about the adventure ahead, already I felt the presence of my ancestors’ blood flowing hot through my veins.
I glanced about at my five sisters. When our vehicle began to leave the palace grounds, each of them began to secure their veils to cover their faces. Yet even under the black cloaks and veils, each sister remained a distinct individual, and I could easily discern one from the other.
Nura had worn eyeglasses for years, and the outline of her glasses were now visible through the fabric of her veil. Tahani’s sunglasses were perched on top of her nose, comically on the outside of her veil. A red personal stereo rested on top of music-loving Haifa’s veil and scarf. I glanced down at the floor and saw brightly colored Reebok sport shoes peeking out beneath Dunia’s cloak. Sara was wearing leather sandals.
Feeling mischievous, and always irritated by the ridiculous custom of veiling, I startled my sisters by crying out, “Let’s make this a new day in our lives! Let’s take off our veils and throw them in the dust!” With my arms I reached back to remove my veil.
Sara gave a small scream as she pulled my hands free of my veil.
Looking at me through his rear-view mirror, our Egyptian driver burst out laughing. My feelings regarding the black cloak and veil were well-known to him, and he often seemed to take delight in my unconventional public behavior.
Nura, the matriarch of the family, lifted her veil and stared sternly at me. “Sultana! I command you to stop! On this day, you will concentrate on our trip, and not on your veil.”
“Nura, you prove my point,” I teased as I pointed at her exposed face. “Even you know that words have little meaning when spoken from behind a veil.”
That was true! The spoken word and facial expression are bonded; one without the other is not taken seriously.
“Sultana!” Nura warned.
Tahani began to giggle at Nura’s expression of uneasiness so exposed under her lifted veil. Everyone but Nura joined in her laughter.
“Oh well,” I muttered, “I suppose it will not hurt me to wear the veil for a few more hours.”
Now understanding that I had been teasing her all along, Nura leaned forward to pinch my arm. I escaped by hi
ding behind Sara. We began giggling.
I said, “Do not worry, Nura, Allah obviously wants me to wear this veil that I so detest to the grave.”
Our mood of gaiety continued as our caravan passed several modern towns set in scenic oases of date palms. The plan was that we would set up camp at an area between the Tuwayq Mountains and the Dahna Sands. There was a wadi, a dry river bed, in that area, known as Wadi al Jafi, an old Bedouin route.
The grinding of the gears of our four-wheel drive and the lurch of the wheels began to settle as fatigue on my body. I was eager for the journey to end, and our desert adventure to begin. After a few hours of driving, we arrived at an unbroken expanse of sand plains a short distance from the oasis of Wadi al Jafi. Although there were local villages, settlements, and other encampments close by, our tents would be raised in an isolated area.
I liked the spot that Kareem had selected. Solitude and stillness hung over us. Not even birds sang in this treeless place. My sisters, including Nura, and the other women gleefully mimicked me when I pulled my veil from my face and my abaaya from my body.
The removal of our dark outer coverings was not considered improper, since we were now in the familiar arena of our immediate family and servants. It is difficult to hide our faces from those who live on the grounds of our palaces; therefore, out of practical necessity, the males hired by our families soon grow accustomed to seeing the unveiled faces of their employer’s wives and daughters.
The wide-open sky and the desert breeze against my skin brought about a sense of well-being. Feeling as free and happy as a child, I laughed as Sara’s younger offspring began to give chase to Tahani’s small children. Sand flew from under their bare feet. The little ones, too, felt the attraction of desert freedom.
With happy anticipation, I then sat in a group with my sisters and our oldest daughters as the men employed by us struggled to erect the black goat-hair tents that would house our families for the next two weeks. We were content as we sipped hot, sugary tea while lounging on carpets spread out on sand hardened in place by the relentless desert winds.
Installing the huge tents was no simple matter, even for those accustomed to this task, and the havoc of toppling tent poles and collapsing roofs caused us to burst into laughter more than once.
Watching the men grapple with the stubborn tents made me particularly grateful for my privileged station in life. Traditionally, every chore associated with the black tent is the sole responsibility of the women. Women first shear the goat hair and spin it into yarn, then weave it into fabric for the walls and roofs of the tents. Even then, their work is not finished, for from the same yarn, they must also weave floor coverings and other furnishings for the tent interiors, such as wall hangings, carpets, and partitions dividing the tent. These “houses of hair” have been the homes to the people of the desert since time eternal.
Although known as “Black Bedouin” tents, the tents are not totally black in color but are shaded with the various colors present in the wool of the goats. Tent sizes vary, depending on the wealth and importance of the tent owner.
Of course, all of our tents were specially made and much more spacious and elaborate than most poor Bedouins had ever seen. Each tent was comprised of twelve broad strips of black cloth, each seventy-five feet long. Eight wooden frames held up the tent. Even the smallest of our tents, measuring only sixty feet in length, would be considered enormous by most Bedouin.
We women grew weary of watching the bustling activity long before camp was established. Although we praised the fastest workers, only five tent roofs were upright and taut after several hours of hard work by many men. A large number of tents still waited to be assembled. Surely, it would be late into the evening before all our tents were ready.
In our restlessness, we decided to ask Asad to accompany us on a short walk outside the camp area. Soon, with Asad in the lead, a large group of women and children walked gaily out into the desert, even though the sun was still high in the sky and would continue to blaze for several more hours. We turned our bare faces to the sun with much pleasure as we walked behind the scampering children.
Amani’s eyes were twinkling with pleasure, for she was coaxing a young baby camel along on our walk. Earlier in the day, when the men unloaded the camels and sheep, Amani had attached herself to this one fawn-colored baby which now stumbled and cried, swinging its head on its long neck toward Amani. The animal had been taken too young from its mother, so it now recognized a new source of comfort, and followed Amani everywhere.
When Amani cooed and began to speak to this camel in a baby voice, I knew that we would not be eating the tender flesh of this particular animal. With its curly coat of soft hair, long limbs, and especially its huge, heavily lashed eyes, the baby camel had stolen all our hearts. My only hope was that Amani would not insist that the camel be housed in our tent.
I sighed heavily as I stared at Amani, wondering how I would ever cure my daughter of her animal follies.
Sara touched my shoulder. She and I exchanged a rueful glance. My dear sister understands my every emotion.
The children quickly formed groups and spread out in several directions, promising us that they would stay within sight.
Asad sat down on a small hill and said he would watch us all from that point. He smiled gaily as he held up his high-powered binoculars.
My sisters and I walked on hand-in-hand toward a high rise in the sand. I began to study the infinity of the desert. “Just think, the totality of our past world once filled this vast emptiness.”
“And, not so long ago,” Sara said, as she stooped to pick a yellow desert flower.
“I cannot even imagine the bleak life we women escaped,” Dunia lamented, shuddering at the thought of the bustling work even now going on in the camp.
Nura chuckled as she rolled her eyes. Sara and I exchanged knowing smiles. We had both been truly shocked when we heard that Dunia had agreed to join us on this trip into the desert. Rarely did my sister Dunia venture outside the safety of her palaces. To our surprise, once she was assured there was ample room for her Egyptian massage therapist and Lebanese facial specialist, she finally decided to accompany us.
Sara and I were often annoyed with Dunia’s behavior. Without a doubt, Dunia possesses the ideal personality for a Saudi royal princess. Of the ten daughters born to our mother, none is better at enjoying a life of leisure than Dunia. Her favorite pastime is to make herself as perfect as the imperfections of her face and body will allow. This sister has mastered filling her days with eating, sleeping, undergoing beauty treatments, and visiting with her family and friends. Dunia does not read newspapers, magazines or books, take any exercise, nor show any interest in the world outside her palace. As the years have passed, I have noticed that Dunia’s debilitating fatigue comes earlier and earlier in the day, and her hours of rest have grown longer and longer. I once feared that Dunia might be mentally impaired, but it seems that she is not. Quite simply, nothing stirs Dunia’s lazy mind.
Still, Dunia is not a bad person; she has never hurt anyone in her life. Yet, as far as I know, Dunia, has never helped anyone, either. Of course, we sisters love her, for no other reason than our beloved mother gave her life. Although Dunia inherited none of our mother’s wonderful qualities, she is of our blood. We have no choice but to love her.
Nura suddenly stopped and bent forward to scoop up a handful of desert sand. “Yes. We just barely escaped the harsh life of the nomad.”
Dunia tenderly patted her own face with her hand. “Nura, you will give me wrinkles of worry with such talk.”
We all laughed loudly. Dunia’s lack of passion of any kind, either for or against any subject, in combination with endless facials, massages, and special creams, has kept her skin flawless. No wrinkle would dare show on Dunia’s face!
Years before, Kareem privately nicknamed this sister, “The mummy,” saying that nothing of Dunia’s years on this earth was written on her face.
Nura grabbed Du
nia, hugging her and kissing her loudly on both cheeks. “Oh! Dunia! You worry about the possibility of wrinkles?”
Dunia pursed her lips and forced a smile. As usual, she could think of no fitting reply.
Yes, my dear sister’s mind must surely be empty, I thought sadly.
From this point, we walked in silence until we reached the rise in the desert. Suddenly, the full splendor of the sand dunes of the Dahna Sands came into full view. Grain upon grain of endless sand had formed awesome red mountains of sand; several dunes rose so high that they appeared to touch the edge of the blue sky. I held my breath in wonder at this amazing sight.
My sisters stood quietly, allowing their senses to respond to the ancient sight of red sand that shone like copper in the light of the sun. It was humbling to think that for thousands of years our ancestors have been awed by the beauty of such a panoramic landscape as we were now so fortunate to look upon. As we stood enraptured, the absence of human sounds roared in my ears, and I listened carefully to the nothingness. When I strained to look in the distance, though, I thought I saw something moving. I shaded my eyes with my hands. “Look!” I shouted, as I looked across the sea of sand. “The dunes are moving!”
The wind was no more than a faint breeze, yet the sand appeared to be rolling toward us. I squinted into the distance. Was this a desert mirage?
Sara lurched backward in alarm and at the same moment I realized that it was not sand that was in motion, but rather a large group of men on camels moving across the sand toward us! These men were strangers, and we were vulnerable and alone, at some distance from our protector Asad, with our faces and hair uncovered! The sound of piercing cries gave us another shock. Several of the desert travelers had unwound their ghutras, their red-and-white checkered head coverings, and were now waving them at us! Obviously, the men were Bedouins who had seen us and were racing their camels in our direction!
Greatly alarmed, my sisters and I yelled for our daughters and young children as we all scrambled back through the sand toward Asad.
