Application to International School in Arabia

I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going but early one sunny June morning in an English village I answered an teaching advertisement in the Times Educational Supplement asking for English speaking teachers to work in and International School in the UAE. I answered it quickly and flippantly by email (just in case I changed my mind) and pressed 'send.' I didn't want to think about it and I didn't think anything much would come of it and I carried on with my day.

Bored, lonely and living in a small English rural village in the Chiltern Hills I had convinced myself I needed and adventure once my daughter had left home for the bright lights of London and University. After reading one of those therapeutic (or depressing) articles in a trashy women's mag which had suggested that 'at this time of my life I needed to consider taking a risk.' At the time I had been a little cynical, giggled out loud in fact in the quiet of my living room and put the thought to bed.

But over the next few days the idea kept creeping back to the front of my mind and I toyed and toyed with the idea of life in the foreign place as wild and exciting as the Middle East. The words of that crass article kept coming back to haunt me. The most outrageous thing I had ever done in this the first half of my life was have five holes pierced in my ears, so I was definitely up for a challenge and a bit of risk in my life.

Anyway lonely and bored and having just finished that very girly book, Eat Pray Love, my Shirley Valentine moment kept popping up and before I knew it I had completed two interviews - one in Watirose as I did the weeks shopping and the other in my bathroom after a shower ( I'll leave you to your imagination here). I had to giggle - if only the head teacher knew. Even this experience felt outrageous and dangerous. Three days later the phone rang and I was offered the position. Personal papers and qualifications began winging there way across the internet, a flight was booked and my adventure began. 

Within a month I landed at Dubai airport with a suitcase of belongings and was met by a driver on a rickety old school bus in 40 degree humid heat and was driven through scarlet expanses of sand dunes, passed camels grazing on the road sides and women clad from head to toe in black abayas and burkhas. The high levels of heat burnt the inside of my nostrils and throat as I embarked on this strange and foreign land and adventure. The thirty two seater rickety school bus bounced along the road for two hours with me frantically holding onto my suitcase delivering me to my new home, an apartment in rural UAE.

I began this adventure with just a bed, wardrobe, dresser, sofa, chair, coffee table and a fairly well organised kitchen. This was to be my home for the next two years and sadly I was still alone but in a different part of the world. But I would not be bored working in the school, tackling the challenge of living in Arabia as a white western woman teaching kindergarten Arabic children to speak English and then learn something. A new start, challenge and life.

The biggest challenges were yet to come but at least I had remembered to bring Yorkshire tea with me. My tea wouldn't last two years but would certainly get me going. Lets boil the kettle and make that cuppa.

#amwriting
15.03.16

Induction into Arabian School Life

I awoke last night in the middle of the night after a nightmare that took me back to my time as a British teacher in the Middle East five years ago. I thought I would share with you some of the challenges I faced while working there that still haunt me. Within a month of applying for a teaching position online and a two hour telephone interview (while I was shopping in the supermarket) I was on a plane flying to Dubai to work as a kindergarten teacher in an International British Curriculum school as well as the gifted and talented and special educational needs advisor.

In forty degree heat on a rickety old school bus and after a two hour drive I arrived at my hot and dusty desert destination and was informed I would be collected at seven in the morning by the same rickety old bus and taken to the school for induction procedures to commence. Forty three international teachers had been recruited that year and all were to stay in a hotel until our apartment building was completed.

Now this is where it gets difficult and hard to believe but I want you to listen, believe and realise how challenging the life I was about to embark on was for a white western middle class teacher to comprehend the absolutely extraordinary policies and procedures we had to take on board and adhere to.

After the bone shaking bus ride to the school we arrived in the school parking lot and were ushered into the school auditorium where we were addressed by the senior management board (all of whom were westerners) and our Middle Eastern induction commenced.

As we all sat stunned ,we listened to our bosses in all seriousness inform us, that due to the fact that most women would wear the burka or niqab often accompanied by an eye veil when visiting the school, we would need to work out a comprehensive strategy of recognising the mothers and all female siblings, maids and drivers. They went on to advise that they had some strategies to suggest to us as follows:

Recognising female authorised persons to collect children from our classrooms by:

·         The sound of their voice
·         Their eyes (if you can see them)
·         Their jewellery
·         Their shoes
·         Their handbags
·         Their gait and walk
·         The decorations on their abaya, burka or niqab

As teachers that are trained in safeguarding and child protection, risk assessments and health and safety, we were completely speechless and dumbfounded. The end of the day at our classroom doors became the scariest and most stressful time of day. Each and every one of us was terrified we would let a child go with the wrong parent or someone who was trying to carry out abduction.

While working in the Middle East there were several attempted abductions in schools in the area by men fully covered in the burka or niqab. Thankfully the children in our classrooms went home with the correct family members or authorised collectors but I can honestly say I am glad I do not have to deal with the stress of that experience today.

04.12.14

An Arabian Beauty Salon

Other than the large hotels mostly set on the beach and the odd excursion to one of the major cities, there is very little to do in for expat teachers in rural Arabia. Once you have experienced the glamour and glitz there is little else to do week after week. As westerners we had to be very careful to abide by the local rules and laws and also careful not to offend, so our western way of life had to be carried out in the lounges of such hotels and more or less from behind closed doors. This is the only place we could eat, drink and be very merry, so for four very English teachers, Sunday afternoon visiting the local beauty salon to have a manicure or pedicure was a treat and a half and believe it or not…a big event.

We loved this outing every Sunday, apart from the fact that we ended the afternoon with beautiful nails and toes; we also loved it because we were able to experience a vision and flavour of the Arabic women’s world that we could not watch anywhere else. We were able to surreptitiously get inside their world and be part of the intimacy of Arabic women and experience the harem clique and striking atmosphere. As western women we were not supposed to become close to the local women in case we influenced them in some negative manner. Some of us had, over the months, made close friends with local women only to find, sadly, the relationship died a very quick death once their men folk became aware of the relationships, consequently the women back peddled and didn’t turn up for coffee again. Sadly, we never made friends with an Arabic woman.

The beauticians are, generally, young Filipino women who have left their families in their home countries and travelled to the Middle East to make a better life for themselves and their extended family. We got to know many of these Filipino beauticians and were privileged to have many deep and difficult conversations with them over the years spent working in this rural town. One extremely young beautician shared her very sad story with us whilst filing and shaping our finger and toe nails. She had not seen her two year old baby for two years and missed him terribly; she just worked long hours and sent most of her money home in order to help take care of her son and give him the life she felt she never had. Quietly shaping she shed quiet tears.

The beauty salon we attended was large and must have employed over twenty of these young girls who were all supplied with very basic accommodation and employed by a wealthy Arabic madam. The girls would shed a few tears reciting their life stories to us and were so grateful that someone listened with empathy and compassion. The girls looked forward to our visit and made us very comfortable and welcome and over time we all became good friends.

Sunday afternoon at the salon was amazing for many reasons including outlandish expanses of mirrors, leather and crystal but watching the Arabic women paint themselves from head to toe for weddings, parties, dinners and just to please their men folk was an incredible sight and privilege. Kohl eyeliner, bright eye shadow, vivid lipsticks, hair extensions, dyes, gel nails and jejazzles were everywhere, not to mention frills, petticoats, sashes, stiletto's, beads and bustles bedazzling us. We sat surveying this exotic opera for hours as they paraded back and forth in front of us. No expense was spared and the adornments glittered and sparkled bright enough to blind any spectator watching this spectacle.

Four very English teachers sat, hands splayed, with our Filipino friends busying away at making our nails gorgeous while we were entertained by these amazingly beautiful women and young girls in their magnificent makeup and attire. Sunday afternoons transformed the salon into a local meeting place for chatter and gossip, laughter and tears, playfulness and teasing; a tranquil setting for Arabic women to come together safely and allow their reticence and restraints to be shed for a short while, and bare their hearts and souls in a culture where this is hard to ensue. Thankfully, for us very English educators, we were fortunate and blessed to be able to witness this beautiful pastime and be a small part of it too.

Waiting for our manicures to dry, we sipped sweet black Arabic tea from crystal clear miniature mugs; it was a pleasure.

An Arabian Wedding continued

And still no bride…or groom…yet!

Remember…the scene was amazing and spellbinding and we two very English teachers had been enjoying every single minute of this bridal event. As the concealed male voice and gong resonated to call us all to our tables for our elaborate dinner, all hell was let loose, as female...yes, all female...waitresses entered the marquee, in unison, from all corners, in exotic traditional dress, carrying huge silver platters covered in a huge domed silver food covering balanced on their right hand way above their heads in a well-rehearsed regimented march.

Each platter was placed in the centre of each elaborately decorated table and the traditionally dressed female waitresses turned and marched in time with each other back to the kitchens and returned minutes later with obscene numbers of side dishes that were delicately and precisely placed around the large silver platter centre stage.

As guests we sat patiently and waited watching this parade and spectacle take place until it was indicated by the concealed male voice that we could begin to help ourselves to dinner. One of the elder matriarchal Arabic women at our table stood and lifted the dome from the silver platter to reveal a whole roasted goat...head and all...ordaining the platter in the middle of our table. There was head, legs, tail, and feet...so you can now visualise how big this platter was. This large roasted goat slept in the middle of our table lovingly festooned with local herbs and leaves, it was a true work of art.

The waitresses parade continued collecting and removing the silver domes from each table and then immediately each of the Arabic woman lurched into the goat dissecting every limb and fighting over who was going to get the pleasure of the head. My English friend and I just sat mesmerized watching this ungainly debacle. It is one of the only times I faked vegetarianism, much to the chagrin of the Arabic womenfolk sharing our table. Everything about that meal was difficult; nothing was to my taste, strange flavours, textures and mixes but to refuse was considered rude, disrespectful and extremely bad manners in this culture. Boy, did I find eating that meal at that table grim; swallowing became awkward and at times impossible. I have to confess I did spit the most unpalatable mouthfuls into my napkin on several occasions.

The most delicious part of this meal was the traditional desserts, especially Arabic rice pudding, absolutely delicious, traditionally accompanied by the standard weak Arabic sweet syrupy tea (which I had now become accustomed to) served in the traditionally beautiful miniature glass mugs delivered to our tables by the “parade” of the female waitresses once more. Every little glass mug had been intricately engraved with the interwoven initials of the bride and groom and the royal family crest.

As we enjoyed the sweet tea and admired the glass tea mugs, Arabic music cascaded and wafted into the very pink decorated tent and swamped the guests. Whispers, rustles and hushed chatter enveloped the entire space and.....then, as we waited in anticipation....from the far end of the mile long cat walk under a pink flower laden arch and from behind a voile curtain appeared the most serene apparition.....the bride.....innocent, shy and composed, dressed in the most beautiful white very “poufy” dress with an enormous train flowing behind her, she began to walk incredibly slowly and gently down her bridal mile, making her way towards a two seater “pink” sofa in a shrine type setting at the far end. She stopped and twirled occasionally in order that no one missed a single ruffle, frill, pearl or diamond on that poufy dress. Everyone watched and gazed in awe for at least an hour, as this young woman, paraded relentlessly, until she reached the flower adorned sofa where her family assisted with her dress and train in order that she could sit, and sit comfortably, and wait for her groom to join her.

At this point I suddenly noticed that now we were being secured and guarded by an armed, all female security attaché that mingled between the guests for the remainder of the evening tapping feet in time to the music, hollering and dancing with the guests from time to time with pistols slung on their hips. What a strange and contradictory sight. After several hours of dancing, hollering and warbling and young girls provocatively snaking their hips in the middle of the round dining tables where earlier we had been devouring our goats, suddenly the atmosphere changed. A steady hum radiated through the women and around the tent like a Mexican wave followed by a rapid rustle of abayas, scarfs and veils which swept across the room within minutes; once again the room was clad in black rather than coloured satin's, voile's and diamonds. It looked more like a funeral than a wedding. Not a single lock of hair was visible other than the blonde locks of us two English teachers who were unclad and showing our wears. To a fanfare of local musicians and male dancers at the flower enveloped arch, the groom finally appeared in traditional royal white and gold robes and with eyes only for his bride he proceeded to take his own parade along the mile long catwalk, stopping occasionally to the seductive hollering and warbling of the women and girls until he reached his bride.

Joining her on the couch, the family embraced them both and the dancing, hollering and celebrations continued into the small hours. Bride and groom sat on that couch for the remainder of the evening, not touching, and at opposite ends, occasionally looking and speaking to each other until most guests had departed. Luxury cars drove back into the plush pink carpet clad entrance way to collect the celebrated and royal guests and return them to their palaces and homes. My English friend and I took our chauffeur driven stretched Mercedes back to our teacher’s quarters with vivid memories of an exceptional evening never to be repeated.

An Arabian Royal Wedding

Tea has always been a common denominator in my travels. I outlined that in my very first blog. And as explained previously, being English, very English, tea has always hung prevalently in my existence. This cute little pet name I inherited during afternoon tea with a good group of girlfriends after many years of tea and travels around the globe. The pet name came about in Arabia, but I had been brewing tea in a variety of receptacles, in a variety of countries and continents for several decades prior to my experiences in the Arabian Desert.

And so to continue with my Arabian Prince……

Blessed with a real life four year old Arabian Prince in my class, I was to experience some events that I could only have dreamed of prior to arriving in the Arabian Desert and these would also include afternoon tea. Having become a trusted confidante of my Princes governess, I was given an invitation to one of the Princesses exchanging of wedding vows. I didn't even have to worry about a new evening dress for this very special occasion; I was given the gift of some beautiful fabric and the address of a tailor who, to my design, run up the most gorgeous dress in two days.

All dressed up and collected by chauffeur driven Mercedes limousine, I was driven to the Palace. On entering the Palace gates, we passed armed guard security and continued along the flashing white twinkle lit tree lined driveway until we reached the large bridal marquees. To my utter surprise my limousine drove right inside the first pink plush carpeted marquee where we stopped (on the thick pile carpet) and the chauffeur helped me and my guest out of the car right into the wedding reception marquee.

The decoration was exquisite...pale pink ribbons, roses and baby lights twinkled everywhere. Pale pink thick pile carpets coveted the ground, cream silk drapes, solid silver cutlery and goblets housing champagne flowed throughout the tent. Cut glass shone and sparkled on two hundred or more circular tables around a two hundred yard long cat walk covered in cerise pink rose petals and the edges decorated with thousands of cream and pink flowers of every species one could think of.

The whole setting was overwhelmingly beautiful, it was awe inspiring. I couldn't take it all in. The setting and atmosphere caught my breath; I couldn't help staring for a long while as I digested this amazing vision and soaked up the beauty of the entire space. Nothing had been overlooked; every minute detail had been thoughtfully executed with tender loving care. Not a single item was missed; from the chandeliers to the place settings, from the carpets to the floristry…and all in a very grand tent.

The tent, of course, was full of women and girls. The men were in another very plush tent next door. The women wore amazing finery but most were ensconced in a black opaque overcoat called an abaya. Nevertheless, their finery often came with a long train which followed the women outside of the overcoat. For us two English teachers the three yards of visible finery flowing behind them, was fascinating and we wished with all our hearts the women would cast-off the overcoat and show all. These three yards were encrusted with any amount of crystals, beading, lace, ruffles and truly exquisite fine fabrics; it felt like they were teasing us and of course they were all teasing each other. The competition in the tent between the women was overpoweringly recognizable and at a “do” such as this, one wanted to “out do” anyone and everyone if one could.

Chatter, gossip, laughter and music filled the air as we glided in-between these ornate female creatures discretely espying and memorizing as much of the finery and atmosphere as possible. All of a sudden, over a loud speaker, an anonymous and clandestine male voice, announced that dinner was ready to be served. The tent became a scurry of hushed voices blended with the rustle of fine linen, as the women frantically found their tables and began to discard their abayas. We watched in wonder and awe as the tent took on a different life and colour; crystals, gold and beads dazzled from every corner of the room as the women finally paraded their attire like peacocks. The scene was amazing and spellbinding and we two English teachers loved every single minute. We turned to each other and smiled and completely mesmerized, the two of us were the last to take our seats, as we watched this spectacle unfold. We were now being watched by thousands of Arabian female eyes, of all generations, as in slow motion and with smiles on our faces we graciously found our seats for dinner. The whole room rose, smiled and clapped at us.

And still no bride and groom had been seen.

To be continued……

At the Classroom Door in Arabia

We filed into the large tired drab auditorium in relative silence. Having only arrived twenty four hours before, no significant relationships had yet been formed. As good English citizens do, we formed an orderly line along the edge of the stage at the front of the auditorium to claim our refreshments, other's didn't queue. Brews of Arabic and English tea was boiling away.....sadly, to be served in white plastic cups. “Take two cups, one inside the other”, we were advised, “and be careful it could be very hot”. Most of us plumped for the English brew, although weak and very milky, at this early stage we were not brave enough to try the Arabic. To my surprise, and sadness, no fine English “rose patterned” bone china teacups (or PG Tips) were anywhere insight; weak, milky and white plastics cups it was then.

Having identified parents and carers at my classroom room door in England by their faces, style and personalities, it was astounding at induction to be informed in Arabia, and more importantly in this fee paying British Curriculum school, this was not so. Forty three teachers sat, aghast, when advised of the recommended tactics we were expected to use.

With thirty children in my class who were delivered and collected by different carers each day this ranked highly as the most stressful part of my day. It was not necessarily the children’s parents that collected; it could be a driver, nanny, maid, governess, grandparent or parent. And if these were female, it was a pretty much given that they would be encapsulated in black from head to toe with only their eyes showing.

As you all know Arabian men do not cover their faces, so for me it was gratifying when a male turned up to do the after school pick up. Unfortunately the fathers did not pick up regularly; generally a female member of the family appeared outside my door. Pick up was easier if not Muslim by faith or the lady came from a bordering country, as generally one saw the face and the female was only ensconced in the scarf. Any female Muslim was, more often than not, covered from head to toe in the abaya, scarf and veil and the more fundamental the more layers of black voile covered their faces. The most fundamental ladies even wore thick black gloves, tights and socks and some of the older generations wore a metal plate across the centre of their face. No flesh to be visible to the world at all, especially to men other than their immediate male family members.

Traditionally, the Burqa, was worn by the Bedouin women to protect them from the sun, sand and extreme elements on their nomadic travels through the desert. Wearing the Burqa is not an Islamic requirement and is traditionally steeped in local customs, culture and traditions. What is mandatory in Islam is to wear cloth or clothing that cover the whole body, including the hair, except the face and hands. The cloth or clothing (abaya) must not be tight so as to show off or enhance the female form and should not be transparent to make the under garments visible. It is stated that women "cover up" to preserve their modesty and out of respect for their husbands. Arabic women explained to me that the hair, lips and body are all classed as sexual symbols and these must not be on view to any man other than immediate male members of the family and behind the families front door.

So, in the humid dank auditorium, and in the management’s wisdom, we were tutored to ensure we learnt, and had the ability to, recognise each mother or female by, what was classed as normal practices, in this rural small Arabian town. Given a list to digest, a gasp and sharp intake of breath moved through the auditorium like a Mexican wave. Frowns, raised eyebrows and rolling of eyes were visible all around me but to my amazement management just glossed over our astonishment. Queries and comments were ignored and basically we were told to “get in with it”.
Dismissively, we were given our comprehensive list of recommended ways of recognising the covered women at our classroom doors. It was seriously recommended that we learn the sound of each mothers voice and then we were given a list of other helpful additions to observe, take note of and recognise.....rings, brooches, jewellery, shoes, handbags and even the decoration on their veils or abaya. It was even suggested that we recognise the way they walk. Scared, flabbergasted and in a state of shock, I really didn't digest much more of that induction, as, I am sure did no one else. These practices were to haunt me every day of my teaching life in Arabia. I never did feel comfortable and was always terrified I would let a child go home with the wrong person.

The end of the school day was a very stressful time. I would shake and my heart would race and I could hear it beating in my chest. I was unable to bring myself to leave my classroom door or trust anyone else to see my class home safely. I saw my children home safely myself every single day. The only person I felt I could trust (if I was otherwise engaged in other teaching responsibilities) was my Lebanese teaching assistant, although I was constantly worried about the repercussions of child being lost or taken.

On several occasions, we heard of men disguising themselves in the Burqa and Hijab (veil), clad in black from head to toe and wearing ladies shoes, attempting to kidnap young children from schools for organ donation which would be sold to friends, acquaintances and family in other parts of the world. This was shocking and outrageous and caused much condemnation among me and my colleagues. The criminals carrying out these disgusting deeds were part of a sophisticated underworld that somehow secured much personal information about a particular child in a particular school and often managed to get by school security and arrive at the classroom door. As teachers and carers, no matter how worried and stressed we were, we could be nothing but vigilant, responsible and wise. This was normal practice in this part of the world and this was the way it was. Terrifying and completely beyond my understanding, I found myself ever over cautious at my classroom door. I am pleased to tell you my children went home safely with the right adult at all times.

At the end of each day, as you can well imagine, a strong brew (with a mars bar) was always a welcome and relaxing interlude in the staff room after all the children were safely reunited with their families.

Bedouin Camping in Arabia

Come, settle down with a good brew, curl up somewhere comfy, grab a blanket and enjoy my next adventure…

Sitting out under Arabian clear skies, twinkling stars, a bright moon and some unusual critters in evening temperatures of 32 degrees (and above) around the most beautiful camp fire I had ever seen with special friends, was truly a delight. I had never camped before in my life, so to camp in the middle of nowhere with complete strangers – human, reptile and animal (insects abound) – was a bit scary. This was another one of those amazing experiences and learning curves for me, Mrs T.

Circumstances had brought us together, all teachers in a foreign land, and now, as a close group of friends, we set off in a convoy of four wheel drives, in high spirits, across barren arid terrain that quickly became barer and more desolate as we left the city behind us and ventured deeper and deeper into the golden desert. Camels, sand dunes and dusty roads were all we could see for miles, both left and right, for the entirety of our road trip. It was long, but not winding, a straight and dusty highway that stretched ahead forever and disappeared over the horizon and way beyond leading us into an adventure like we had never experienced before. Fifty or so miles into the heart of the desert and weaving through vivid tangerine wind sculptured, massive dunes, the size of mountains, we finally arrived at the stately and prestigious Arabian stud ranch which was to be our home and camp for the next few days and where we were to participate in a traditional Bedouin camp under the clear starry starry desert night skies.

Our kindly and generous hosts had already set up the extremely striking Arabian camp; three large cream hexagonal tents strategically and perfectly placed in an arc around a black ash pit where we would eventually build our own camp fire. The smell was potent; a distinctive blend of dust, sand, soot and Arabian horse manure filled the air. Wood had to be gathered in the desert dusk for the fire so several of the group volunteered to head off in search of as much parched branches and scrub as they could muster. Much was found and proudly dragged back to camp and a huge fire was started which we all instantly moved close to and sat around to warm ourselves. The desert gets cold in the evenings. The fire was comforting, warm and atmospheric and lively chatter, laughter and sipping filled the air. Rapidly, ornate and beautifully woven blankets, robes and pashmina's were rummaged and shared out to each and every one of us. It felt luxurious and rich to be ensconced in such fabrics and traditions. Our hosts supplied a large ornate filigree engraved silver teapot full of water, which was hung on a stake over the vast fire to boil. While waiting for it to boil, we all busied ourselves with unpacking and settling into camp by filling our tents with our belongings and supplies. There was one hexagonal tent per family group and I had one all to myself.

We all settled back around the fire and sated ourselves with delicious food and drink. The atmosphere, like nothing I had experienced before, was oozing from under regal blankets and pashminas as we relished each other’s conversation and company. Under the clear Arabian starry skies laughter echoed, chatter could be heard; Arabian music trickled softly in the background while the cicadas clicked their night music and the stallions whinnied from sandy paddocks nearby. Spiders and critters scurried beneath our feet, the odd desert wren tweeted its song and an Arabian owl twit ta wooed as the night moved in. The whole atmosphere and scene was amazing and had the essence of a storybook. Life long friendships were being forged and memories made during this trip.

The exquisite filigree teapot whistled its readiness and the hot sweet weak Arabian night cap was offered to all in petite clear delicately engraved glass mugs which was a welcome finale after our dinner of meats, Halloumi, salads, breads and humus. Content, happy and relaxed, seated around the fire we all settled down to share our life experiences; what a way to experience camping for the first time. As the sun disappeared behind the mountainous dunes, changing the colours of landscape as it retired, each one of us, as if taking turns, began to respectfully retreat to our most elaborate tents for some well-earned rest.

My Bedouin tent was beautiful and glamorous; extravagantly furnished with exotic Persian cushions along each wall of my hexagonal Arabian bedroom. The fabric were elaborate and complex; the colours rich and the fabrics expensive. Persian carpets covered the sandy floor and burgundy silks draped the inner walls tied back perfectly with gold tasseled rope. Seductive reds, purples and gold formed heady hallucinations and thoughts of the harems, belly dancers and camel trains in times gone by. When I closed your eyes I could imagine the traditional Bedouin men and women’s past lifestyles. The desert smells and sounds added to the atmosphere. When ready to retire I was shown how, traditionally, to push several of the exquisite heavy cushions together along one wall to make my bed. At the rear of the tent was a cream voile fabric screen for me to use as a changing space giving added privacy and creating a dressing room.

I had been very apprehensive about this trip but there was no need; it was amazing. I experienced, as authentically as possible the Bedouin way of life over that weekend. It was so enjoyable we repeated it many times during my time in Arabia. I slept well and rose at dawn to see the sun come up over the dunes and to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking on the grand fire. The days were relaxing, playing traditional games, watching Arabian Stallions manoeuvre through the dunes and sharing our lives around the fire pit in between cooking and preparing hot tea.

On this occasion no PG Tips were required or appropriate, weak sweet Arabian tea in beautifully engraved glass mugs was the order of the weekend and Mrs Teacup was quite content, happy and satisfied. Nothing could have been better in our Bedouin camp or added to the atmosphere. Sometimes tea needs to be different for different occasions in different parts of the world for different reasons. This was definitely one of those occasions and reasons.