As I have said before Dubai is a very pretty city, and seems to be well planned, especially for tourism. It is one of the favorite local travel destinations to be sure and we have heard from some of Scott's colleagues about something called a "desert safari" that was favorably reviewed. When we realized we were going to be in Dubai, we went ahead and booked a desert safari with via/orient tours. It was completely touristy, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
We were picked up from our hotel, the Movenpick Bur Dubai at around 3:30 in the afternoon my a man who introduced himself to us as "Gul" (rhymes with school). From there headed to downtown to Dubai to pick another pair of safari-goers, two Japanese ladies with almost no English, at their hotel. From there we immediately pointed the SUV out towards the desert. Did I mention it was the Arabian Desert? At first it looked like west Texas to me, but I guess all deserts look a little bit alike.
Incidentally, Mr. Gul, who informed us he was from Pakistan, was a very polite if somewhat taciturn man who said he had been with the tour agency for over 7 years. From the way he interacted with the tour goers from many different nationalities, it was obvious he had at least a rudimentary grasp of at least four languages and to this day he is the only Muslim individual that I can recall seeing actually stop what they are doing when the call to prayer is sounded. I saw him stop to pray twice during the 5 hours of our "safari." Interesting.
The Safari includes a "dune bashing" session, where they let the air out of the tires and do insane dune-running in fully loaded Toyota Land Cruisers. I asked the driver why they let the air out of the tires and he told me it prevents the tires from digging in. He explained that the softer the tires were, the more they spread out, like the soft feet of a camel, giving better purchase on the fine sand. I thought of the difference between a carpet and a tent pole . Funny how our minds tend to frame things in terms of our immediate setting, huh?
After we all had our photos he then began indicating that we needed to pay him. It was uncomfortable, since he didn't speak any English (or at least pretended not to) and we had to ask our tour safari guide, who seemed annoyed and embarrassed, to translate for us. It was also uncomfortable because my husband is allergic to touristy money traps, and became more than a little resentful. This is my husband, Scott, with the beautiful creature. By "beautiful creature" I am of course referring to the raptor. I mean the one in bird form.
We were given a brief interlude to stretch our legs, while the drivers let the air out of the tires and I managed to get some good pictures of our first moments in the desert. The moon was visible high over the sandy landscape and I just couldn't resist a photo of that, especially after my 10 year old son, Miles, pointed out to me in his best junior scientist voice that "this looks like the surface of Mars."
Feeling self-conscious about my own size in relation to the size of the animals I was planning on riding on, I was nevertheless determined not to deprive myself of this experience. To ride a camel in the Arabian desert? Almost nothing could have kept me from it, not even my nagging sympathy for the poor beast who was destined to carry me. << That's me, with Miles in front of me, on a camel!!! In the desert!!! Ever see the SNL musical skit "I'm on a boat"? That's all I could think of "I'm on a camel!" (FYI-that's the "clean" link, should be OK for kids or the office.)
Distracted as I was by my musings I failed to realize that what she was putting on my hand, in semi-permanent stain, was a series of childish looking flowers with swirls and dots. She was half-way through with the design before I saw it coming together and realized how wrong it was for me. What I had wanted was something traditional and exotic looking. What I received was my own fault for allowing myself to be hurried into docile acceptance. It was obviously a "canned" pattern tailored for bland tourist's tastes. *Note to self: Make sure you insist on whatever time you need to make sure you negotiate clearly and get what it is you really want.*
I thanked her anyway and made room for Miles, who was thrilled to boyish self-importance with his new cobra tattoo. He was somewhat less thrilled when he realized he wouldn't be able to use his hand or wrist for 30 minutes, but he got over that pretty quickly when he saw the stage where the dancers would be. We took a quick tour around the camp, getting some soda's for Scott and I and a fresh squeezed orange juice for Miles, before heading over to the seating area to await the show.
As the sun started to set, a dancer can on stage. It looked like a young man in an Edwardian corset and full calf-length skirts and boots similar to a what a 19th century Russian Cossack might have worn. His boots were red and blue. By that I mean that each of his boots was split in half down the middle. Looking at them head-on, one side was blue and the other was red. He was carrying what looked like tambourines but it was hard to tell in the deepening gloam as twilight saturated the open space between the stage and our seats. As the music started, he started to spin. He kept his weight on one foot, and used the other to push himself around and around. The whole time he was dancing, all I ever saw on that boot was one color. As he spun around the color changed, but it was always so precisely placed that you never saw even a slight bit of the other color. 
At the end of his dance it was much darker outside. It was then that he turned on his skirt. Yes, turned it ON. There were lights sewn into the layers, and the different layers had different colors, and he did some very cool things with them. I thought I had been able to get a video of it, but I must have accidentally deleted it.
After the first dancer, the buffet was served. The advertisement for the safari called it "desert BBQ" but it was a mix of the regular food you find in this part of the world. Hummus, tabbouleh (though they said it wasn't tabbouleh when I asked, but it was a cold salad of parsley, Bulgar wheat, lemon juice, diced tomatoes and I just don't know what else that might be called) tandoori chicken and lamb chops, regular salad, a bland lentil curry for the Indians and the vegetarians and bismati rice, round unleavened bread, sliced steamed potatoes and for some strange reason those crappy, pre-frozen hamburger patties. I guess they must feel like they have to put out "burgers" for the Americans on the tour. It was not quite what I was expecting from a "desert BBQ", but we were all hungry and for the most part it was fresh and welcome.
After a short break for everyone to get some food in their bellies the music started again and the belly dancer came on. She was older than you might expect from a belly dancer, perhaps mid 40s, and she had obviously had *gasp* given birth at least once. Nor was she stick thin. Having an eye for costumes as I do, I had a great deal of respect for the way she had customized the different elements hers in order to camouflage any evidence that she was a living, breathing person who had a life outside of performing as a dancer or that she had been doing anything at all with her life for longer than 28 years.
She was an amazing dancer with impeccable control, and had mannerisms that I am not used to seeing belly dancers perform in American Tribal Style. One thing that really intrigued me was her eye movements. She would roll her eyes up into her head and blink repeatedly. I was vaguely reminded of other Asian dance styles, such as Balinese, that incorporate exaggerated eye movements into the performance. I was also curious if it was intended to allude to...other areas of human experience that are often associated with belly dancing. The music got very loud suddenly, I think the DJ was trying to ratchet up the enthusiasm of the crowd, but Miles and I had to cover our ears and return to our table.
After the belly dancer, we were all tired and very ready to go home. We straggled out to where our drivers were parked on the outside of the camp and made our way back to the hotel. That ends the tale of Day 1 in Dubai. Check back for more--Day 2: The Tallest Building in the World--tomorrow or the next day.
Incidentally, Mr. Gul, who informed us he was from Pakistan, was a very polite if somewhat taciturn man who said he had been with the tour agency for over 7 years. From the way he interacted with the tour goers from many different nationalities, it was obvious he had at least a rudimentary grasp of at least four languages and to this day he is the only Muslim individual that I can recall seeing actually stop what they are doing when the call to prayer is sounded. I saw him stop to pray twice during the 5 hours of our "safari." Interesting.
The Safari includes a "dune bashing" session, where they let the air out of the tires and do insane dune-running in fully loaded Toyota Land Cruisers. I asked the driver why they let the air out of the tires and he told me it prevents the tires from digging in. He explained that the softer the tires were, the more they spread out, like the soft feet of a camel, giving better purchase on the fine sand. I thought of the difference between a carpet and a tent pole . Funny how our minds tend to frame things in terms of our immediate setting, huh?
The minute we all started to unload from the vehicles, we saw a man in traditional desert attire swooping down to us on a 4-wheeler. As he got closer we saw that he was actually a falconer, and had his gorgeous bird with him. He saw how delighted I was with the falcon, and encouraged us to take many photos with his pet. Assuming it was part of the tour, like it is at Medieval Times, I did not hesitate to play the goofy tourist.
After we all had our photos he then began indicating that we needed to pay him. It was uncomfortable, since he didn't speak any English (or at least pretended not to) and we had to ask our tour safari guide, who seemed annoyed and embarrassed, to translate for us. It was also uncomfortable because my husband is allergic to touristy money traps, and became more than a little resentful. This is my husband, Scott, with the beautiful creature. By "beautiful creature" I am of course referring to the raptor. I mean the one in bird form.
We were given a brief interlude to stretch our legs, while the drivers let the air out of the tires and I managed to get some good pictures of our first moments in the desert. The moon was visible high over the sandy landscape and I just couldn't resist a photo of that, especially after my 10 year old son, Miles, pointed out to me in his best junior scientist voice that "this looks like the surface of Mars."
We passed some camels after we started moving again, heading deeper out into the dunes. I was glad to get a few shots of the camels, thinking they might even be wild, but then I realized most of them were hobbled.
At one point our driver pointed out some fruit-bearing vines along the ground that grew in scrubby clumps here and there, sprouting directly out of the sand. He indicated that the were a type of squash, but bitter, not sweet like you would find in the market. I was very surprised that any type of melon or squash would grow in the desert as I thought they required lots of water. The baseball sized greenish-yellow fruits mostly looked half-eaten, so I assumed the camels had been nibbling on them. I asked him if they were planted on purpose for the camels and he laughed and said no, they were wild.
Soon we were far enough away from the rendezvous site to begin the crazy desert stunt-driving portion of our evening. Our guide really did display a great deal of skill on those dunes. Even my husband, who is quite the driver himself as well as a formula one racing and rally racing fan, mentioned afterward that he was surprised at what the driver was able to get the car to do without it rolling over. As we crested some of the taller dunes, our driver would honk several times to alert anyone on the other side that we were coming over in a hurry. Rolling over isn't the only danger involved in "dune-bashing."
Everyone in the car was screaming like it was a roller-coaster ride. Everyone except the driver, and of course, my husband. Scott is not someone generally given to wild expressions of enthusiasm. Or any expressions of enthusiasm, actually. He did grin quite a bit, and the occasional heartfelt chuckle coming from the front passenger seat was more than enough to let me know he was having a good time.
After the stunt driving, we drove across the desert for about 10 minutes--how do these guys know where they are going when everything looks the same?--to visit a camel breeding farm. We were told that the farm is owned by a member of the royal family of Dubai, and that the camels are used for meat and racing. Coming from Texas as I do, and being an animal lover as well, I was a little put off by the idea of eating an animal that you'd ride. I think of beasts of burden more as reliable companions than a food source. It spoke to me of a cultural difference, reminded me of a basically different attitude toward life that I would like to discuss more later. It was also interesting to me that the racing camels were not only all female, but the ones we saw were all pregnant. And stinky.
After a few minutes at the farm, gazing through the tall hurricane fence at the pregnant camels as they clustered around the food trough, we loaded back into the SUVs and drove for about another 10 minutes. This time we followed some tire tracks, so there was at least some kind of trail to follow. It seemed like the longer we were in the desert, the faster our guide drove. I don't know if he was trying to show us a good time or was just ready to get the evening over with. At the time, I was more interested in holding on than asking questions.
After that short but, uhm...exhilarating...drive, we rolled to a stop at the top of a high, steep dune, maybe 40-60 feet high at an angle of 40-70 degrees depending on where you stood along the rim. looking down into a sort of broad valley about a football field across. Here Mr. Gul, our guide, told us that here we would "ride camels, have henna, sand board, smoke shisha, have dinner, and belly dancing." He told us meet him on the other side of the camp after the other activities were done and he would take us back to our hotel.
We clambered stiffly out of the SUV and maneuvered, with varying degrees of agility, down the dune-face. Off to our right were some folks from another tour already sand boarding down the steepest part of the dune. I had reserved judgement on that particular activity until I saw it up close. It sounded like fun when I was reading about it, but when I actually got there it looked more like the kiddie slide at the park. I decided to head straight for the camel ride!
When we were at the camel farm, I remarked to Scott that the camels looked smaller than I had imagined. I really thought they looked too small to ride. Scott said he had the opposite impression, and that he had been just thinking how tall they were.
Feeling self-conscious about my own size in relation to the size of the animals I was planning on riding on, I was nevertheless determined not to deprive myself of this experience. To ride a camel in the Arabian desert? Almost nothing could have kept me from it, not even my nagging sympathy for the poor beast who was destined to carry me. << That's me, with Miles in front of me, on a camel!!! In the desert!!! Ever see the SNL musical skit "I'm on a boat"? That's all I could think of "I'm on a camel!" (FYI-that's the "clean" link, should be OK for kids or the office.)After we all had a chance to ride a camel for a good minute and a half, everyone meandered down to the camp. The buildings were made of palm leaves. The fronds had all been bent forward along the shaft, and from there the construction was much like what you would see with bamboo or thatch, with the lengths being lashed together with wire and twine. The entire camp was encircled with the same material.
As we entered, immediately on the right hemisphere of the circle, there were a series of stalls/tents/huts that offered various activities. The left hemisphere of the camp circle was ringed with smallish seating areas in their own semi-private enclosures. In the center of the camp circle was a fairly large performance area, maybe 20x30 feet, facing the area with a DJ booth behind it.
Miles and I both got henna tattoos. I have always wanted one but never gotten one, and the girl didn't speak much English so all we could agree on was the placement on my hand. The girl giving them didn't seem happy, and I found myself wondering about her background, and how she came to be doing this and whether or not it was by choice.
Distracted as I was by my musings I failed to realize that what she was putting on my hand, in semi-permanent stain, was a series of childish looking flowers with swirls and dots. She was half-way through with the design before I saw it coming together and realized how wrong it was for me. What I had wanted was something traditional and exotic looking. What I received was my own fault for allowing myself to be hurried into docile acceptance. It was obviously a "canned" pattern tailored for bland tourist's tastes. *Note to self: Make sure you insist on whatever time you need to make sure you negotiate clearly and get what it is you really want.*
I thanked her anyway and made room for Miles, who was thrilled to boyish self-importance with his new cobra tattoo. He was somewhat less thrilled when he realized he wouldn't be able to use his hand or wrist for 30 minutes, but he got over that pretty quickly when he saw the stage where the dancers would be. We took a quick tour around the camp, getting some soda's for Scott and I and a fresh squeezed orange juice for Miles, before heading over to the seating area to await the show. On the floor of the seating enclosures there were coverings which looked like threadbare--and I mean completely threadbare--carpets. Imagine someone taking a really, really old carpet and pulling all the threads out of it, leaving just a few stragglers, then sewing a new border around the edge. Perhaps they were rejects from carpet manufacturing that had been re-purposed? I would like to think they had been recycled in some way.
Long, low tables were covered with rough brown cloths and various scarfs thrown on at angles, and the tables all had hard, rectangular cushions leaned against them for the attendees to sit on. Angling them against the table like that would prevent dust and sand from settling on/in them somewhat, I suppose. I piled a few of them up and sat back for a minute to just enjoy the scenery and feel the desert breeze as the sun set slowly around us.
As the sun started to set, a dancer can on stage. It looked like a young man in an Edwardian corset and full calf-length skirts and boots similar to a what a 19th century Russian Cossack might have worn. His boots were red and blue. By that I mean that each of his boots was split in half down the middle. Looking at them head-on, one side was blue and the other was red. He was carrying what looked like tambourines but it was hard to tell in the deepening gloam as twilight saturated the open space between the stage and our seats. As the music started, he started to spin. He kept his weight on one foot, and used the other to push himself around and around. The whole time he was dancing, all I ever saw on that boot was one color. As he spun around the color changed, but it was always so precisely placed that you never saw even a slight bit of the other color. 
What? Whirling dervish? Aren't they in Turkey? I was confused but fascinated as he continued to spin around and around, at first performing tricks with his pie-plate thingies and then with his skirts.
At the end of his dance it was much darker outside. It was then that he turned on his skirt. Yes, turned it ON. There were lights sewn into the layers, and the different layers had different colors, and he did some very cool things with them. I thought I had been able to get a video of it, but I must have accidentally deleted it. For those who are curious what it looked like, I found a very similar video on youtube:
One thing to keep in mind, though, is that the dancer we saw went on for at least 20 minutes. And didn't pass out, or even fall, or stumble. It was beyond impressive.
After a short break for everyone to get some food in their bellies the music started again and the belly dancer came on. She was older than you might expect from a belly dancer, perhaps mid 40s, and she had obviously had *gasp* given birth at least once. Nor was she stick thin. Having an eye for costumes as I do, I had a great deal of respect for the way she had customized the different elements hers in order to camouflage any evidence that she was a living, breathing person who had a life outside of performing as a dancer or that she had been doing anything at all with her life for longer than 28 years.
She was an amazing dancer with impeccable control, and had mannerisms that I am not used to seeing belly dancers perform in American Tribal Style. One thing that really intrigued me was her eye movements. She would roll her eyes up into her head and blink repeatedly. I was vaguely reminded of other Asian dance styles, such as Balinese, that incorporate exaggerated eye movements into the performance. I was also curious if it was intended to allude to...other areas of human experience that are often associated with belly dancing. The music got very loud suddenly, I think the DJ was trying to ratchet up the enthusiasm of the crowd, but Miles and I had to cover our ears and return to our table.
After the belly dancer, we were all tired and very ready to go home. We straggled out to where our drivers were parked on the outside of the camp and made our way back to the hotel. That ends the tale of Day 1 in Dubai. Check back for more--Day 2: The Tallest Building in the World--tomorrow or the next day.
