I have a friend who has shared lovers with the Sultan of Oman.
Opportunist lovers hang about the Palace gates in darkness. The Sultan presents himself to the gathering of Muslim boys offering their virginity and subservience to him in return for a sports car. Opportunist agents hang about the Sultan's hand-picked lovers offering hard cash for the car at a value considerably less than the dollars the Sultan has parted with in procuring the sports car. Opportunist auto enthusiasts hang about the agents offering hard cash for the car at a higher value the agents offered the lovers, but lower than the dollars the Sultan has parted with in procuring the sports car.
In this game the Sultan is being dicked... in more ways than one.
My friend is not an opportunist. He does not hang about picking off the Sultan's discarded lovers for himself to enjoy.
Homosexuality is rampant in Gulf countries. Sexual relationships with Muslim women are off limits until their wedding night. Men seek sexual gratification with men until they acquire a wife. It is an accepted societal norm.
My friend has lost lovers to new wives. He ends a homosexual affair when his lover marries.
My friend has ex-lovers from Saudi Arabia visit him in his home in neighbouring Oman.
One night two weeks ago, an ex-lover from Saudi Arabia with his sons paid my friend a visit, bringing him news of Sunni and Shi'ite tensions within Saudi Arabia necessitating Shi’ite's to emigrate in increasing numbers to other Gulf countries. Such news from Saudi Arabia only spreads through trusted intimate personal networks. News whispered to the wrong person could incur a severed limb or death.
My friend and his lovers enjoy a reciprocal exchange of luxury goods. The night after the visit from the ex-lover of Saudi Arabia, my friend invited me to his home to pick on the remains of lobster and crayfish from the Sultan's Palace. A lover working in the Sultan's kitchen ate this culinary fare and drank red wine with my friend earlier in the evening. If not red wine, and if without friends dealing in the black market, Omani's drink cologne for its intoxicant effects.
A young Omani man pointed out the Sultan's new personal luxury liner to me. It was anchored in the Muttrah harbour next to the Sultan's other seemingly identical luxury liner.
"The Sultan has no heir and we are worried what will happen to Oman when he dies. He doesn't come out in public anymore and he watches us from his helicopter. He spends money on himself and his own pleasure. He is gay and spends his money on his lovers. We are worried."
This young Omani man was not married.
Wouldn’t it be a sterling coup if this young Omani man could dick the Sultan of his new personal luxury liner?
April 30, 2008
April 20, 2008
Mind your Arabic!
on the highway -- fast approaching Mughsail – this kind of fast: the desert is a blur and not because a sandstorm is engulfing us in a great swirling fury -- the driver -- the driver is --
Milking a camel?
Do I want milk? He is asking me. In Arabic. Milk? Camel?
As he pulls on his imaginary camel teats!
This is me shouting in Arabic: La, la, la! Badeesh!
Which translates to: No, no, no! I don't want!
But what I do want is both hands on the wheel and eyes on the road now!
Milking a camel?
Do I want milk? He is asking me. In Arabic. Milk? Camel?
As he pulls on his imaginary camel teats!
This is me shouting in Arabic: La, la, la! Badeesh!
Which translates to: No, no, no! I don't want!
But what I do want is both hands on the wheel and eyes on the road now!
I don't say this in Arabic. I can't.
But why is my taxi driver milking an imaginary camel as he hurtles us down the highway?
Because I didn’t mind my Arabic.
Here’s the thing. I was showing off my rudimentary Arabic skills and was blathering all sorts of phrases to my taxi driver, mostly kiddie talk, hoping to impress the pants off him and instead I was completely misunderstood and he wanted to see my breasts.
The misunderstanding materialised at the frankincense tree (see picture above snapped by my taxi driver of me at the frankincense tree – before he touched my right boob).
The Arabic I spoke that sparked this misunderstanding was: Badeec halib?
Which translates to: Do you want milk?
To understand why I asked my taxi driver such a question must be explained in a wider context.
It all began back in 1995 in the kitchen of my 2-bedroom apartment in Three Kings, Auckland. My then husband Mr Nasib Abu Saada and I were hosting a month long stay of Nasib’s brother Ajwad, Ajwad’s wife Diana, and their two young girls Jacqueline and Madeleine. The girls were in the kitchen with me and they had taught me to say “do you want milk” because they wanted milk and through my effort of understanding their Arabic to understand what they wanted I learned to say “do you want milk” in Arabic.
I therefore spoke this phrase in amongst a string of phrases in Arabic to my taxi driver in the Omani desert, qualified beforehand with an explanation to my taxi driver in English: I know some Arabic. Can you understand…. (presuming he had a basic grasp of English to comprehend the qualification).
That my taxi driver parroted the phrase “do you want milk” back to me a number of times I took to mean he was affirming he understood my Arabic. I was smiling and nodding by way of encouragement and happy that we were establishing a friendly connection through a rough rendering of a common language. He was smiling and nodding back.
Then he touched my right breast.
And then he did the classic Robert de Niro “I’m watching you” thing. With his two fingers he touched his eyes and then pointed to my breasts.
This is me shouting in Arabic: La, la, la! Challas! Yallah, yallah!
Which translates to: No, no, no! Enough! Let’s go, let’s go!
He was an aging, slight man and, being careful to be firm but in good humour I repeated No, no, no! Enough! Let’s go, let’s go again and again, leading him away from the frankincense tree and toward the taxi to get back on the road. Not feeling at all physically threatened and feeling able to handle this situation, I trusted my taxi driver would deliver me safely to Mughsail.
On the highway fast approaching Mughsail my taxi driver began to milk his imaginary camel and repeated over and over to me: Mahfee? Mahfee?
Which translates to: Nothing? Nothing?
So mind if you don’t want a man in Oman to touch your right breast or to milk your breasts, maintain absolute silence in all taxi rides.
But why is my taxi driver milking an imaginary camel as he hurtles us down the highway?
Because I didn’t mind my Arabic.
Here’s the thing. I was showing off my rudimentary Arabic skills and was blathering all sorts of phrases to my taxi driver, mostly kiddie talk, hoping to impress the pants off him and instead I was completely misunderstood and he wanted to see my breasts.
The misunderstanding materialised at the frankincense tree (see picture above snapped by my taxi driver of me at the frankincense tree – before he touched my right boob).
The Arabic I spoke that sparked this misunderstanding was: Badeec halib?
Which translates to: Do you want milk?
To understand why I asked my taxi driver such a question must be explained in a wider context.
It all began back in 1995 in the kitchen of my 2-bedroom apartment in Three Kings, Auckland. My then husband Mr Nasib Abu Saada and I were hosting a month long stay of Nasib’s brother Ajwad, Ajwad’s wife Diana, and their two young girls Jacqueline and Madeleine. The girls were in the kitchen with me and they had taught me to say “do you want milk” because they wanted milk and through my effort of understanding their Arabic to understand what they wanted I learned to say “do you want milk” in Arabic.
I therefore spoke this phrase in amongst a string of phrases in Arabic to my taxi driver in the Omani desert, qualified beforehand with an explanation to my taxi driver in English: I know some Arabic. Can you understand…. (presuming he had a basic grasp of English to comprehend the qualification).
That my taxi driver parroted the phrase “do you want milk” back to me a number of times I took to mean he was affirming he understood my Arabic. I was smiling and nodding by way of encouragement and happy that we were establishing a friendly connection through a rough rendering of a common language. He was smiling and nodding back.
Then he touched my right breast.
And then he did the classic Robert de Niro “I’m watching you” thing. With his two fingers he touched his eyes and then pointed to my breasts.
This is me shouting in Arabic: La, la, la! Challas! Yallah, yallah!
Which translates to: No, no, no! Enough! Let’s go, let’s go!
He was an aging, slight man and, being careful to be firm but in good humour I repeated No, no, no! Enough! Let’s go, let’s go again and again, leading him away from the frankincense tree and toward the taxi to get back on the road. Not feeling at all physically threatened and feeling able to handle this situation, I trusted my taxi driver would deliver me safely to Mughsail.
On the highway fast approaching Mughsail my taxi driver began to milk his imaginary camel and repeated over and over to me: Mahfee? Mahfee?
Which translates to: Nothing? Nothing?
So mind if you don’t want a man in Oman to touch your right breast or to milk your breasts, maintain absolute silence in all taxi rides.
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