Page 44 of Under the Arabian Sky

“What doesn’t happen?” Tariq asked.

“People taking in strangers and feeding them.”

“Nobody is a stranger here. We are all children of the desert. Even you.”

“I am?”

“You’ve been lost in these sands. You’ve made love in these sands. You’ve prayed in these sands. You belong here now.”

“I haven’t prayed in these sands. I’ve listened toyoupray… but me? I’m not that big a believer in whoever’s up there.”

“You don’t have to believe in a god to pray. All you have to do is show respect and humility and gratitude for the world around us. Those are virtues you possess. I’ve seen them in your eyes when you look out over this desert. I hear your prayers no matter how silent they are.”

At that moment a Bedouin family joined our table, led by a woman carrying a large shared plate of food, brimming with roasted meats, chargrilled eggplant and asparagus, as well as melon, figs, dates and nuts. I didn’t realise how famished I was until the delectable aromas of this barbecued feast lit a fire in my belly.

Tariq and I both ate, the fats of the meat and the juices from the vegetables and fruit dripping down our hands and wrists as we devoured one of the most delicious meals I had ever tasted.

“Good?” said the Bedouin woman sitting with her children, before biting into a slice of watermelon.

“It’s wonderful,” I replied. If my words were lost in translation, my smile was not.

Suddenly theting-ting-tingof tiny cymbals and thethump-thump-thumpof a drum took my attention away from the woman and even the food, as all eyes turned to the centre of the tent.

Sitting cross-legged in front of an animal-skin drum was a man, pounding out a beat to which a raven-haired woman in a bejewelled bikini and veils took centre stage, playing her finger cymbals and swaying her curvaceous hips left and right.

The Bedouins all began to clap in time with the slow, steady beat of the drum. But as the rhythm of the drum began to speed up, so too did the sway of the belly dancer’s hips.

As she jiggled and swayed and swivelled about— her belly like waves in motion— I leaned close to Tariq and said, “She’s incredible. What are those little cymbals on her fingers?”

“We call themzills.They are the chimes of a seductress, like the song of a siren.”

“Are belly dancers always female? I’d love to see a man do that.”

“I can,” Tariq replied matter-of-factly.

I was at once surprised, amused and extremely curious. “What? You can dance like that?”

“My Aunt Fatima was a belly dancer. As a young boy it always fascinated me, it was both exciting and enchanting at the same time. So, one day she took me aside and taught me how to dance like her.”

“Seriously? Imagine if your father had found out.”

“He did. My aunt tried to explain to him that I was showing interest in the female form, but somehow, I don’t think he bought it.”

“Why not?”

“I think it had something to do with the pink veils I was wearing at the time.”

I had to stifle my need to laugh out loud. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”

“Are you kidding? It’s hilarious. You should have seen the look on his face.” He glanced at me and pondered aloud, “Perhaps I’ll dance for you someday. I’m sure you’ll be a more appreciative audience than my father.”

I beamed. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

“I bet you will.”

The hips of the belly dancer jittered so quickly they became a blur. Tariq was right, there was something both exciting and enchanting about the way she moved. But the spell that was cast was not simply her doing. It was a combination of the beating drum and the chiming zills and the flickering torches and the shining stars above.

Oh my… those stars.

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