Among The Bedu

The glowing embers of the fire illuminate the faces around the circle, and the charcoal scent of roasting meat wafts from the makeshift grill. Glass cups of sweet black shai glint in the flickering red-orange light as they're passed around, while overhead an astonishing canopy of stars dots the dark, moonless night sky with pinpricks of light drifting across the celestial wasteland of remote time and space. The wind blows gently across the silence of the desert, the only sounds the protesting grunts of the camels penned just behind us and the animated patter of rapid fire Arabic from my amiable Beduin companians.

Suddenly, as if by magic, there is the sound of loud music. The chords seem familiar, yet perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me? It couldn't be, surely? It is. A well-known husky voice growls the opening line, then another gravelly-sounding baritone interjects. Before Sting can add his guttural whine to Bryan Adams and Rod Stewart's wailing, a medley of heavily-accented cries rises from the manically-grinning Bedu as they sing along.

I'm in eastern Syria, sitting in the garden of a Beduin family with whom I'm spending the weekend. I came to visit the fabled Roman ruins of Palmyra; once, in another epoch, a hugely significant outpost on the Silk Road to the Orient, at its zenith ruled by the semi-mythical Queen Zenobia, purportedly a descendent of Cleopatra and Marc Anthony. The Zenobians, and the Romans, may have disappeared into the sands of the desert 18 centuries ago, leaving behind only dusty brown ruins, but not all the inhabitants of this area have been lost in the mists of time. The nomadic Bedu endure here, much as they have for countless millennia, eking a patchy living from the forbidding wastes of sand with camels and small flocks of livestock, wandering the desert with their black goat-hair tents, distinctive red and white checked keffiyehs, and legendary code of honour and hospitality.

Or so the story goes.

Few peoples have been as romanticised by Western travellers as the Bedu. Deified as timeless, immovable, immutable, much like the desert itself, the Bedu long ago ceased to be mere men in the eyes of awestruck orientalists. This race of supermen captivated desert explorers from the earliest days of Western encroachment in the orient. Revered by great men like Burton, Lawrence, and Thesiger for their apparently stubborn resistance to the influence of modernity and their refusal to alter their ancient way of life, these fairytale nomads perservere with their traditions of hospitality and welcome amid the inhospitable landscapes of the harshest, most unforgiving environment on earth.

I was introduced to Ahmed and his bewildering array of brothers, uncles, and cousins through a classmate in Damascus. Bedu hospitality being what it is, I was assured that "of course" there would be no problem in our showing up unannounced for a weekend. The welcome was predictably warm, the smiles sincere, and the tea predictably sweet. Yet far from anachronistic desert-dwellers, rejecting the advances of technology, "civilisation", and modernity, I found my expectations confounded by the often-confusing and contradictory reality of 21st century nomads. Camel-riding desert wanderers who use mobile phones and 4 wheel drives. Devout Muslims who worship Enrique Iglesias and Bryan Adams. Keffiyeh and jalabiyya-wearing fashion victims who argue vehemently over the relative merits of Giorgio Armani and Calvin Klein. Fiercely loyal traditionalists with a strong belief in the purity of their bloodlines who like nothing more than bedding Western tourists awestruck by the otherworldly beauty and exoticism of men who live in the desert.

Despite the late hour (it's well past 2am when we arrive), dinner is prepared and served with gusto. We sit cross-legged on the floor in the living room, a dizzying mosaic of carpets and rugs beneath us, low slung cushions at our backs. An ancient television in the corner shows reruns of what i take to be an Arabic version of Pop Idol. In the modern, globalised world, some things apparently cut across all cultural and linguistic boundaries: talentless masochistic wannabes lobotomised at birth included. The men, and they are all men, eat hungrily. Though it's late, or early, depending on your perspective, it will soon be dawn: the first rays of sunlight will bring the resumption of the Ramadan fast. The plates of humous, salad and chargrilled chicken are cleared away: we sleep where we eat.

Next morning Ahmed's designer jeans and t-shirt have been swapped for austere white robes and checked head-dress. The transformation is startling: suddenly he is no longer an urbane Westernised Syrian, but a desert-dwelling nomad. I fear my own borrowed keffiyeh effects less of a total metamorphasis on my appearance, though it does at least keep me cool as we ride camels to the nearby ruins. Palymra is certainly spectacular: in size, setting, and state of preservation it dwarfs anything in Turkey by a factor of at least ten. Yet given Syria's post 9-11 classification as a "rogue state" and "supporter of terrorism" by the West, the site is deserted. No tour buses or cruise ships here, al hamdu-li-Allah. Yet my hosts might disagree - the family business is tourism - as well as leading trips to the ruins and longer excursions into the desert, Ahmed owns a hotel in the nearby town of Tadmor. Other Bedu families earn a living (or not) in similar fashion: as a result of the slack market numerous camel-drovers and souvenir keffiyeh salesmen loiter languidly in the shade of Palmyra's ancient stones, scarcely a customer in sight.

Despite the tough times, Ahmed blanches at the suggestion of payment for our stay. As friends of a friend, Mauro and I are entitled to the full gamut of Bedu hospitality. Although their way of life is changing rapidly, some things remain the same. The Bedu will adapt their customs, just as they always have (contrary to popular belief, camels were a relatively recent addition to the nomads' arsenal of defences against the ravages of the desert), but Inshaallah their traditions of generosity and kindness to strangers will endure.

As I write this in a Damascus internet cafe, a familiar song plays on the radio. Bryan, Rod, and Sting croon the theme tune to The Three Musketeers. It occurs to me this makes a fitting motif for the Bedu and their ancient code of hospitality: "one for all and all for one." I prefer "Summer of 69" myself, but anyway...

Feast, Famine, and Men Who Hold Hands

As the sun slips behind the dusty brown mountains to the West, Damascus is bathed in a beautiful golden light. As the muezzins tune up for their hauntingly beautiful renditions of the call to evening prayer, the usual noise of rush hour traffic falls eerily silent as this bustling city of five million people quickly becomes a ghost town. As the dusk twilight fades into darkness, shutters come down and the last few stragglers hurry home, leaving the Syrian capital devoid of any outward signs of life. Yet behind the closed doors of countless houses, apartments and mosques in this, the fourth holiest site in Islam, friends and family sit down to celebrate.

For this is the holy month of Ramadan, a time of introspection, observance, and self-denial. All across the Islamic world the faithful eschew the pleasures of the flesh: eating, drinking, smoking, and sex, fasting during daylight hours and feasting in darkness. For one month of the year, Muslims remind themselves of their devotion to Allah, studying the Qu'ran, praying more often and with more focus than usual, and strengthening their communal ties by sharing the hardships of the holy month. Come sunset, hungry eyes turn to the home, where the traditional meal of Iftar ("breakfast") is served.

The feast begins with a bowl of dates, passed from (right) hand to (right) hand, and copious cups of "shai", the ubiquitous sweet black tea on which the Arab world appears to run. (My dentist should be in for a bumper payday come January) My own flat's Iftar has a particularly African feel: my landlord Djbril hails from Chad, and as far as I can tell runs an open house for every Chadian in the Levant. The boundless hospitality and generosity of the Chadians ensures I am invited to join their Iftar, despite my less than monastic adherence to the rigours of Ramadan. Although I am not, nor ever will be, a Muslim, I began the month with the noblest intentions - "when in Rome" and all. Yet ideals of cultural assimilation tend to fall by the wayside when the mercury is pushing 40 degrees Centigrade and you're struggling with the peculiarities of a language whose speech patterns often resemble the last desperate breaths of a strangled kitten and whose written form neglects to mark any vowels. Not eating is one thing, but not drinking is simply impossible. Still, while I may not share the parched throats of my fellow diners, I'm certainly hungry.

After the dates, we settle down to a huge feast of chicken, rice, potatoes, salad, and bread. Simple, yet delicious, African food served with a hearty helping of laughter, affection, and community spirit. While I can barely understand 5% of the rapid-fire Chadian "9aamiya" - dialect- in which Djbril and his compatriots usually communicate, when I understand the odd word they're kind enough to slip into "foussa" - the Modern Standard Arabic with which I'm struggling - for my benefit. Conversation quickly turns to politics and history; like almost all the Arabs I've ever met the Chadians' grasp of world affairs is simply mind-boggling. These are by no means educated people, yet as well as the obvious topics of Palestine and Iraq, beloved of all Arabs, they talk about such diverse and esoteric subjects as the American political system, the IRA (it took a while to work out, but "Adam Gerry" is their endearingly erroneous rendering of the bearded Sinn Fein leader's name) and demand to know if I am named after James I of England/James VI of Scotland, James Bond, or former American Secretary of State James Baker. The depth and breadth of their knowledge is staggering; even more appealing to me is their apparent inability to take any of these weighty matters seriously. As a Brit I'm gently taunted about the occupation of Iraq; one of my tormentors points out the sad state in which the British Empire finds itself in 2007, reduced to the Falkland Islands and Basra Airport.

After dinner we drink yet more tooth-rotting tea and retire to watch television: a four part dramatisation of the overthrow of Egypt's King Farouq by General Nasser in 1952. This provokes jokes about Britain's very own Egyptian would-be usurper, Mohammed al Fayad, and his son's near miss with the throne. Like many a Daily Express reader, the Chadians are in no doubt that Dodi and "Dina" were killed by the all-powerful British secret service. The question of quite where the omniscient and omnipotent SIS' powers went when it came to finding WMDs in Iraq is politely ignored.

The Chadians are typically Arab in many ways. This is a masculine society, where intimate physical contact between members of the same sex is totally normal. As in innumerable cities across the Arab and Muslim world, it's perfectly normal for men to hold hands in the street, to kiss each other's cheeks in greeting, and to share personal space in a way unthinkable in the West. Although I won't be attempting to verify this assertion myself, I imagine that in some ways life for homosexuals here must be much easier than in the West, despite Islam's virulent hatred of gays. (Interestingly there is apparently no non-pejorative term for "homosexual" in the Arabic language: "deviant" is about the least offensive word). Is it a coincidence that many of the greatest Western "Arabists" - Lawrence and Thesiger, to name but two - were perpetual residents of the closet?

Regardless of the inherently homoerotic nature of much of Islamic and Arab culture, life for heterosexuals here is certainly difficult. The schizophrenic attitude to procreation is perhaps best evidenced by the numerous Arabic equivalents of MTV. Pop music is ubiquitous here, most of it emanating from Lebanon and Egypt. While the music is mostly appalling, the videos are quite incredible. Impossibly good-looking young women cavort onscreen in outfits that would make even Britney, Christina, or Shakira blush, thrusting their crotches in a most provocative manner and titillating the viewers with lingering closeups of cavernous cleavage and tanned thighs. It's enough to send even hardened (pardon the pun) Westerners running for a cold shower; Allah only knows what it does to frustrated young Arabs.

Yet in amongst the nubile nymphets and their soft porn shoots are pop videos aimed at a wholly different audience. Saudi artists, all male, croon saccharine ballads with lyrics like (forgive my woeful Arabic here) "I love God, God is my love, my life is all for God". Meanwhile, their faith in Allah and their submission to the dictates of the supposedly austere Wahabist Islamic creed of their homeland are rewarded onscreen with shiny watches, gleaming droptop Mercedes, and of course a couple of "pimping hoes". Unlike Fifty Cent or P Diddy, however, the Saudi stars' bitches are covered from head to toe, and sport wedding rings. All three of them. The message is clear: love God and a harem of devoted (though virginal) women will be yours. Inshallah you'll get a German sports car to drive them around in too.

As the shahada rings out across the now darkened city, a couple of middle aged men hurry past me, arms linked gaily. On the other side of the street, a young man and his stylishly dressed girlfriend walk side by side, a couple of feet apart. And in houses across the country, across the region, across the world, self-starved Muslims desperately gorge themselves in a feast of gluttony before tomorrow's resumption of the fasting, praying, and abstention of the holy month. Allah-uh akbar!