Dusk was imminent over the immense desert expanses of Arabia. Somewhere in the peninsula, a friend and I were striving to drive a 2WD sedan along a random, narrow, sand-sheeted dirt road, searching for a camping spot.
An old military-style jeep did then appear in close distance within the rearview mirror, patently demonstrating its driver’s frustration over the road being blocked and aggressively pursuing its advance. I made way. Starting its overtaking maneuver, I noticed its right window dropping open and looked out of mine in expectation.
Upon seeing we are foreigners, the anger on the Arab man’s face was instantly replaced by a huge smile of contentment and curiosity. He sped up ahead, pulled over abruptly, exited his car, and beckoned us to stop before him. He was a casual Arab man in his fifties, dressed in an everyday grey thobe and a blue keffiyeh. Quite expectedly, he introduced himself as Mohammed.
“Just looking for some place to camp for the night,” I satisfied Mohammed’s quandary about our business.
“You are in my land!” he exclaimed in an enthusiastic tone and a broken English accent. “You are my guests. Follow me,” he added, and without waiting for a reply, he got back into his jeep and led the way along the sandy tracks.
A few minutes later, we wound up on the top of a tall dune. A shack and a sty stood there. Scattered throughout, camels and goats grazed nonchalantly whatever little was to be grazed. A shepherd boy napped in the shade and jumped to his feet surprisedly upon his master’s unscheduled arrival.
Following the man’s instigation, we came out of the car and regarded the broad surrounding view. Numberless smooth dunes spread far towards the horizon, interspersed by small lively oases here and there. The sun’s low angle cast a pleasantly warm hue over the ubiquitous sand.
“This is my land. Hamdullah, everything you see belongs to my family,” Mohammed stated with eye-watering pride. “My home – your home,” he added with genuine selflessness and magnanimity. “You can camp wherever you wish.”
We thanked him earnestly for his much-appreciated hospitality, agreed to settle on the very spot for the night, left our car be, and followed his prompt to enter his car.
We sat snugly in the old jeep’s seats and enjoyed the short tour he gave us around his property. He took us to several of the little oases, plantations, and herbages that were to be found throughout his otherwise parched, vast acreage. He also took us on a short ride to the threshold of the Empty Quarter (the Earth’s most barren territory outside of Antarctica), which bordered his land.
Most interestingly, we visited his traditional family house: a picturesque, semi-ruined, mud-and-stone mansion with a lofty tower. We walked inside it for a brief look, keeping a cautious eye for potential wall or ceiling collapses. He commented grumblingly on his government’s refusal to fund the building’s restoration as a part of the national cultural heritage preservation program.
It was dark by the time we came back to the original spot, where our car lay parked. He dropped us off and left for his house in the town with a promise to be back before long. We pitched our tent by the lee side of the shack and waited.
We should have normally begun working on our dinner, but that would be unnecessary. Although we repeatedly insisted that we have our own food and there was no need for him to prepare tea, we were sure that he wasn’t going to return empty-handed. As expected, he came back carrying two bags full of comestibles. What we hadn’t anticipated, however, was him returning accompanied by one more car.
Mohammed introduced us to some of his children, grandchildren, children-in-law, and his wife, who had all joined him for this outdoor supper. They lay a large cloth on the sand and placed on it a variety of delectable dishes. We formed a circle around it and sat nibbling and chatting under the dim moonlight.
Mohammed’s wife sat in the margin, slightly off the circle, and didn’t utter a single word during the whole evening. An untraveled feminist Westerner reading this story may be already formulating a description of the woman’s husband along the lines of bigoted misogynist, chauvinist, sexist male-supremacist… Having an understanding of the region’s particular cultural reality, however, one should appreciate Mohammed’s progressiveness. The typical middle-aged man from the Arabian Peninsula does not habitually bring along his wife to have dinner with two foreign men in the middle of the desert – without even wearing a niqab but a mere hijab instead.
Some time passed. Only licked-off platters and flatbread crumbs remained on the cloth. The young man who was Mohammed’s son-in-law took everyone in his car and drove back home in town. Mohammed himself stayed longer and served tea for the three of us.
It was then he talked about what seemed to principally occupy his thoughts during those days: He could not postpone it any longer; he was getting old… This year, inshallah, he was resolved to finally get married.
He eagerly satisfied our curiosity concerning what he means since he’s already married… He clarified that he, of course, is referring to a second wife. He narrated how he came to get married to his first wife…
She, of course, was his first cousin. Naturally, like every man in his culture, he was obliged to marry a girl from his close family while he was still a young man. He must have necessarily chosen one of his first cousins for his first wife. Only an unfortunate man who doesn’t have any first cousins may marry a second cousin instead. Since, like most men, he had plenty of them himself, he couldn’t even consider looking for a spouse out of their circle – his parents would never have accepted and allowed it.
Picking one of his suitable cousins wasn’t an easy procedure, especially since he couldn’t see their faces before the wedding. He had to entirely rely on his sisters’ opinions, who were allowed to see their female cousins’ faces and appropriately advise him on the matter. Luckily, he made the right decision. The one cousin he, in the end, picked turned out to be very beautiful and proper in every respect.
She was his first and official wife – his consort, so to say. He loved her and honored her more than anyone else in the world… But the time had finally come to move on and acquire a second one as well. All his friends, after all – some much younger than him – already had a second wife – a good bunch even had a third and a fourth one. He was the last one left; he had to give some regard to his status…
“So, are you then planning to get married to your girlfriend?” I asked…
Earlier, while still driving around in his jeep, he had already spoken to us about his Filipino girlfriend. A good friend had fixed her for him on the internet and, furthermore, had helped him take care of the logistics. They worked out the visa paperwork and booked a flight to bring her from the Philippines to Arabia.
He opened a jewelry shop in the capital for her to work in and bought a flat nearby to house her in. It was a huge success; brilliant arrangement. Not only did the business fully cover the girl’s maintenance, but it also yielded a profit. Before, his meeting his sexual needs was limited to his costly, yearly trips to Southeast Asia. Now, he could just drive to the capital and stay over for a night anytime he wished.
But then, when I inquired on whether he’s intent on marrying her, he was outright baffled. “Why, but of course not,” he replied.
He went on to explain that, although for a second wife he’s not anymore restricted to his close family, marrying a non-Arab girl was out of the question, utterly unacceptable. His Filipino girlfriend was well taken care of and had her rightful place in his life, which she was going to keep, but that’s all, nothing more. Any girl who’s going to be named his wife ought to be a proper Arab Muslim.
He briefly lamented the extreme inflation the wives market in his country has lately been subjected to… Whereas back in the day, when he married his first wife, he had to pay for her the equivalent of $600 in his local currency; nowadays, a wife’s price has increased thirtyfold. But it doesn’t matter. He will have to conciliate with the fact, he concluded.
He was ready to make the big step. He had, in fact, already chosen a bride. There was that one daughter of a male second cousin of his whom he coveted. He had already hinted his intentions to him; hamdullah, he looked positively upon the prospect. In a few months, the girl would finish her studies and return to her family in the hometown. He was then going to, inshallah, officially ask her father for her hand.
…With that long and entertaining chat, the night had progressed. It was time to go to bed. Mohammed checked for one last time to make sure that we would insist on camping instead of coming over to his house, enunciated a hearty good night, and departed.
We were up by dawn on the next day to behold a marvelous sunrise over the dunes. Mohammed was there shortly afterwards. We packed, got in the car, and followed him to his house, where we had an exquisite breakfast his wife had prepared. Still early morning, we thanked him for his outstanding hospitality, bid farewell, and resumed our way through the Arabian desert.
The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.
