Mays Dubai Report PART III
Day 3 of our Coty-Lancaster Sun trip. Today the desert is on the agenda. Because as the ‘when in Rome’ rules apply, you can hardly leave Dubai without sand in your shoes.
So off we go. In three huge cars with fresh-faced drivers. Unfortunately, I can say from experience that this last part is a rarity here.
An hour and a half drive towards the sandbox that, as our driver tells us, is 26,000 square kilometers and I still can't comprehend how big that is. Halfway through, we stop. The car lets out some air from the tires and we get a traditional headscarf tied around us to protect us from sand and sun. And for the experience, of course.
In the sand, we see rugs, cushions, and a veiled lady. Daphne has hired a fortune teller. This immediately divides the group into two camps. The ‘I-suck-everything-up’ people and the critics. I find myself somewhere in the middle. Because how does that woman know how old we will be (although I must say I find it a wonderfully reassuring thought that she told me I am far from halfway through my life. I easily hit 103, she says.), while I also believe that someone can ‘read’ you and say wise words.
In any case, it’s great for group dynamics and I almost saw a TV format being born. Put a group of colorful characters you want to know more about in the desert, let them go one by one to a fortune teller/palm reader or whatever, and then report back to the group. I certainly had two delightful hours.
To top it off, six camels came walking over the sand dunes at sunset. We didn’t ride them (one found it sad, the other scary, and then I suddenly become a coward who also just won’t do it), but I did pet them and look intensely enviously at those eyelashes.
The journey continued. To an oasis where fire pits were set up around. With mini tents that had laid tables and small Fred Flintstone houses that had a real toilet. I will never, ever forget my little trip with Karen from Ede under that crystal clear starry sky towards the toilet where we heard a French grandmother say ‘arrête, putain’ (which really means ‘stop, b****’) and the uncontrollable laughter that followed.
