His and Hers

As a female in the UAE, I didn’t have to wear a head scarf or abbaya, just make sure I covered my knees and shoulders at school and on the street. The malls were pretty much neutral ground where almost anything went, including the spray-on outfits worn by the young, international shopping crowd.

The attitude towards women – which you might not even notice on a fleeting tourist visit – was hard to get used to but once I began to understand it, I could accept it more easily.

No matter where I went, it seemed, I was asked, “Where are you from? Where is your husband? Do you have sons?” I got so fed up with these questions that I wanted to have a little picket sign made up reading, “Canada. Dead. No.”

In Arab society, family – what the western world would probably call extended family – is the foundation, the very cornerstone of existence. It’s impossible to exaggerate its importance. Women have a specific, protected – and, again by western standards – formalized place within the family. As a lone female, I represented an anomaly. Many men were never going to understand how my family could have allowed me – a widow – to wander off, vulnerable and unchaperoned, to the other side of the world. Either something must be wrong with me or with my family. While this wasn’t true amongst my colleagues at the school, it was more or less true everywhere else.

As with most things in my life, I learned this the hard way – and had to keep on learning it.

We had a three-week holiday in January and I planned to visit Egypt, Istanbul and Jordan, making arrangements well in advance through the Sharjah Tourist Authority. After an obligatory wait, I thought nothing of ending up with a male travel agent, a man in his thirties named Bashir, from Bombay. I also thought nothing of how long it was taking to finalize my arrangements or how often I had to visit the travel office. After all, I was in a foreign country and not familiar with the routines. In China, the simplest transactions had to be produced in octuplicate and then stamped with 15 different-shaped seals. Who knew? Canadians don’t tend to argue or pontificate – they follow the rules as politely as possible. (“Quietly taking over the world all the while,” as my friend Pam would say).

On my third or fourth visit, Bashir asked me if I had many friends in the UAE.

“Not really,” I replied. “Other than the people I work with.”

“It’s hard to get to know people in a strange land,” he said. “Maybe we could go for coffee sometime.”

Now, at this point, I thought I had things all figured out. Honesty was the key. Even though this man was at least ten years my junior, I proceeded cautiously.

“As long as we’re clear that only friendship is possible. I lost my husband recently and have no interest in anything but friendship. As long as we’re very clear on that, I would be happy to have coffee with you.”

Bashir look ecstatic. “Yes!” he said. “Friends. Friendship is a very good thing. I, too, cannot get involved in anything more than friendship. I have seven brothers in India who rely on me because I have done well for myself here.”

Accordingly, a week or so later, I went down to the travel office at closing time, about 9:00 p.m. I followed Bashir to a tea room in Rollah, the vibrant Indian neighbourhood of the city. He ordered chai – milky and deliciously, subtly spicy – and, to my surprise, almost no discussion ensued. Men at nearby tables watched us curiously. After 15 minutes, Bashir got to his feet, indicating the outing was over. As I climbed into a taxi, he gave me a peculiar, possessive stare, undressing me with his eyes. I felt exposed and uncomfortable.

A few days later, he called me at home.

“Why have you not phoned?” he asked. “Do you not miss me?”

“Why would I miss you?” I responded, irritated. “I hardly know you.”

“Ah, but you are my friend. Friends miss each other. You must come to my apartment and take off your clothes. I will give you full body massage. Very relaxing.”

Shocked, I almost dropped the phone before hanging it up with a decisive clack. He continued to call, however – I didn’t have call display – and his suggestions became more and more explicit. He even figured out which school I worked at and started leaving messages with the secretary.

Thoroughly alarmed, I related the whole story to my neighbours, a young Australian couple.

Mark laughed at me. He laughed so hard I thought he might lose his lunch. “Annie,” he sputtered when he could finally speak, “Don’t you know that ‘friendship’ means casual sex? You told the guy you wanted to be friends with him. He just wants the sex you promised him. He even bought you a cup of tea. And now you’re playing impossibly hard to get. You minx, you!”

I made a strangled gargling sound and felt my face turn purple. “NO, I didn’t know that friendship meant casual sex!” I shouted. “How was I supposed to know that?”

“Calm down. I’ll help you out. Here’s the plan. I’ll escort you to the travel place, we’ll ask for the manager, I’ll explain there’s been a misunderstanding and we’ll request a female agent. Which, by the way, is what you should have done in the first place.”

“Aaargh! Thank you...I guess.”

“You’re really sure you don’t want to be his friend? He sounds kind of cute.” Mark started laughing again.

“He’s portly!” I bellowed, sorry there wasn’t a sturdy rolling pin ready to hand.

The next day, as promised, Mark escorted me to the Sharjah Tourist Office. The manager turned pale when he heard Mark’s tale (I remained dutifully silent) and I was immediately assigned a female agent. I have to add I was further mortified to learn that Bashir had given me all kinds of unauthorized discounts and special concessions. The agency honoured them but I’m afraid Bashir must have gotten into a lot of trouble. I felt terrible about it because it was my fault – I didn’t understand the culture. Since the only way I could extract him from the trouble was to leap into his friendly bed, however, it was a classic Catch 22 and I had to abandon him to his fate.

You’d think I would have learned. No – certain postures of mind require a series of shocks to dislodge them. Several months later, I found myself stranded in a sand storm in Aswan. My cruise up the Nile was supposed to end with a flight to Cairo but I was confined to my – thanks to Bashir – luxurious stateroom, waiting for the storm to abate.

A knock came at the door. I opened it to behold an uncomfortable-looking steward standing in the passageway.

“I am Mahmoud,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Without thinking – radiating gormless Canadian trust – I opened the door wider and gestured him inside. Did he have bad news about the flight?

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

Native politeness overwhelmed me. The poor guy! Probably not allowed to smoke on the job and desperate for his nicotine fix!

“Not at all,” I said, scrambling for an ashtray.

He seated himself on the small sofa and lit up, replete in his dapper glory. Suddenly he leaned forward. “Actually,” he announced, a bit breathlessly, “I’m interested in friendship. I am married but I can’t talk to my wife.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not interested in friendship at all.”

“That’s okay,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face. “I’m not really interested in friendship either. I’m interested in love....and SEX!”

Already on my feet, I strode to the door and opened it. “Out,” I said. “Now.”

“In Egypt,” he pleaded, “We like to hug each other. It’s an important custom. Maybe I can hug you?”

“OUT!” I repeated.

He went. Unbelievably, he called me on the stateroom phone two hours later to see if I’d changed my mind. Maybe he thought the grey monotony of the sand storm would whittle me down into a mass as pliant and moveable as the Sahara. I hung up on him, reflecting that it’s more than hope which springs eternal.

Should I have learned my lesson by now? Definitely. Had I? Not thoroughly enough.

Three weeks before I left the UAE, I went as usual to buy groceries at the Carrefour in Ajman’s City Centre Mall. My beloved Muhammad the Taxi Driver had taken me there but, due to licensing regulations between the Emirates couldn’t pick me up and take me home again. I was at the mercy of whichever driver whose cab was at the front of the line when I emerged.

“Where are you from?” the driver asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“Canada.”

“Where is your husband?”

What I should have said at this juncture was, “He is at home in our apartment. He’s six feet ten inches tall and he eats Pakistani taxi drivers for breakfast then uses their bones to pick his teeth.”

What I actually said – feeling the typical Canadian concern that my answer might cause him distress so I had to make sure I didn’t sound upset – was, “Umm...he’s dead.”

“Very sad,” said the driver, trying to make eye contact through the rear view mirror. “But do not worry; I will be your friend. I will give you my phone number and whenever you need a ride, you can call me.”

“That’s not necessary. I already have the number of a driver. I just can’t call him from Ajman.”

I literally heard the sound of his face dropping. Disappointment and chagrin weighed down his words as well. “Oh. You already have a Pakistani friend.”

Panic welled up in my stomach. “No! He is not my friend,” I babbled, horrified to realize we were talking about sex. Then I was horrified to realize I’d indicated that Muhammad was not my friend and was aghast at my disloyalty. Guilt and shame percolated through my veins. My daughters tell me I live too much in my head and this episode probably proves they’re right.

Since I had five bags of groceries and the temperature stood at 115 degrees, I couldn’t order Lover Boy to stop the cab and let me out. When we arrived at the gate to my apartment building, he insisted on giving me a card with his phone number on it.

At least he didn’t ask me if I have sons.

Coming Soon: Muhammad the Taxi Driver