Essex Girl's Wet Dream

Dubai. The Palm. The World. The Burj. Land of the 7 star hotel. Home of the world’s largest shopping mall and indoor ski slope. Mecca for Footballer’s Wives wannabes. Chav central. Not my kind of place at all. And yet after a month of Sudan, squalid, maddening, wonderful, impoverished, magical, confusing Sudan, I found myself quite looking forward to my brief stopover in the Emirates. Not least because they have ATMs and accept credit cards. Not least because I’d just lived in a park for two days, hadn’t eaten for three, and had walked five miles out of town to the airport. And not least because I knew I’d hate it. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it” goes the old saying; and since I really really wanted to knock it, I supposed I’d have to try it.

My reasons for disliking Dubai are more complex than they might appear at first. “You only want to go to places that no-one else goes to” chorus the cynics. “Dangerous places”. And I can see why they might think that. The only way most westerners would go to the Middle East is with a gun (malfunctioning if they’re British) in their hands and a conscription notice in their back pocket. Sudan is nothing more than genocide and famine in Darfur. Syria is the Axis of Evil. Why on earth would you go there? Plenty of backpackers go to South America on their gap years; very few venture to Colombia – “renowned for drug-fuelled violence” is the shrill cry from the travel mags. But it’s not my fault people believe what they’re told. I don’t go to these places because no-one else goes, it’s merely a side-effect. I like plenty of places on the beaten track: New York, Boston, Miami, Cape Town, Pamplona, Paris, Berlin. But I know I’m going to hate Dubai.

I hated Singapore you see. After three months of relative adventure in India, Nepal, Thailand and Vietnam, I found the surgical precision, the sterilised cleanliness of Singapore stifling rather than satisfying. The only vaguely interesting parts of Singapore are airbrushed facsimiles of somewhere else more real, more exciting, more visceral: Chinatown, Little India, the Arab Quarter. I’d never been to Canary Wharf when I visited Singapore in 2000; only when I arrived at the soulless glass and aluminium outpost in Docklands did I realise the true horror of Singapore. It even has a little toy train to rival the DLR in silliness.

And of course Dubai is all these things, and more. But somehow it’s much worse. Because it’s the future. In a world of rampant commercialism where global corporations are the new imperial powers, Dubai is a shining beacon of what life will be like. Lonely Planet urges visitors to “glimpse the 22nd century in this chaotic, visionary city”. If that’s what 2200 is going to look like, we should all be thanking our lucky stars we won’t be around to see it. Still, in a world where there are over 160 Starbucks branches within 5 miles of Oxford Circus tube station, is it any surprise to see all the usual suspects hanging out on street corners in Dubai? GAP, Nandos, MacDonalds, Burger King, Nike, Apple; Dubai is like some grotesque brand jamboree. It’s just one big American shopping mall. But without any Americans of course.

To be fair, however, for all its rampant commercialisation, Dubai is a little more interesting than Singapore, and a lot more interesting than Canary Wharf, at least in a voyeuristic kind of way. In short, it’s one of the oddest places I’ve ever been. Given that Dubai is the best-known city (though not the capital, that’s Abu Dhabi) in the United Arab Emirates, one might well imagine it’d be more or less an Arab city, with a more or less Arab population. Guess again. While there are a few Arabs in Dubai, their gleaming white dishadashas and red and white checked keffiyehs seeming incongruously exotic as they queue for a half-caf, double-tall, non-fat, extra-hot chai latte to go, before driving off in a gleaming Porsche Cayenne, the vast majority of the population is no more Arab than you are. This I discovered when I hailed a taxi at the airport in neighbouring Sharjah, and found myself totally unable to understand the driver’s Arabic. Not even ‘hello’. When he excitedly turned up the radio to listen to updates from the India-Pakistan Test match as we sat in traffic, I suddenly realised. Like so many others here, he’s a “guest worker”.

Everyone in Dubai is a guest worker, or an expat. The natives are seldom seen, probably because they’re at home counting their petrodollars or working out how best OPEC can screw the rest of the world just that little bit more. For Dubai is the second-biggest oil producer in the UAE (again, the winner is Abu Dhabi) and the country as a whole allegedly has the third largest oil reserves in the world. Yet oil accounts for a staggeringly small 6% of Dubai’s GDP; by 2010 this will fall below 1% as the property and tourism boom continues apace. Countless eulogising articles in the Western financial press speak of the “Dubai economic miracle” and wonder aloud, “how do they do it?”

The answer is surprisingly simple, as one perceptive (but not that perceptive) article suggests cryptically: “in a globalised knowledge economy it will be the ability to deliver the lowest costs of skilled labour that mark out the winners - and Dubai is already there.” Yes, low-cost labour is the key. Exceedingly low-cost labour. It’s a brilliantly simple, brilliantly original idea. Except of course it’s not that original at all. Slavery is as old as human history. The Pharaohs, the Romans, the Brits, the Americans, the Nazis. All the great empires have been based on slavery. And also the current government of Sudan. Ship “workers” from their homeland to where you need them, forbid them from leaving, and then force them to toil in appalling conditions for a hundred hours a week. And there are hundreds of thousands here, from south Asia, from the Philippines, and from east Africa. They have no rights, no unions, in many cases no passports (these are often confiscated by their employers on arrival), and are paid peanuts to live and work in dreadful conditions. But who cares? The hotels are great, property prices are booming, they have guaranteed Winter sun, and there’s a bloody great snow dome in one of the shopping malls. Chavtastic!

Which brings me onto the next issue. Tourists. Now generally, as you know, I dislike tourists. Loud, obnoxious, inappropriately-dressed, stupid. Yes, I dislike them mostly because they remind me so much of myself. Nothing ruins your ludicrous Lawrence of Arabia, man of the people, intrepid adventurer fantasy like tripping over a family of fatsos from Milton Keynes getting third degree sunburn as they walk topless (all of them) around the streets of Cairo or Istanbul. And I thought I’d seen some appalling tourists before. Then I went to Dubai. As Colonel Kurtz famously whispered, “the HORROR, the HORROR”. It’s a nightmarish vision of a dystopian future. It’s like waking up to Beethoven’s Fifth and suddenly realising you’re in A Clockwork Orange. It’s hideous. It’s as if Marx has been updated for the 21st (or 22nd) Century. The Chavist Manifesto. “Shirkers of the world: unite.” But it’s worse than that. Because they’re all here. From all over Britain. From all over the world.

And then there are the hookers. Because this is a Muslim country (believe me, I had to double-check that fact), alcohol is unavailable outside hotel bars. But since every other building in Dubai is a hotel, and every hotel has at least two bars, this isn’t exactly the Volsted Act. As I sat in my hotel bar, perusing the food menu, I didn’t pay too much attention to the scantily-clad girls gathered in a dark corner, until one of them made eyes at me as she walked past my table. She had that quintessentially Slavic look: ugly, thin (but thin in a manner that suggests an impoverished upbringing rather than a genetic predisposition or long hours in the gym), and appallingly dressed. Still I didn’t work out she was a pro. Until, that is, she left the bar and went upstairs with a portly middle aged Arab gentleman in a dishadasha. For the third time in an hour. It was like one of those Magic Eye posters in vogue in the 90s. After staring for so long at the wood, you suddenly realise you can see the trees. They were everywhere. I went to a couple of different hotels just to check. Same story. Russian whores. Everywhere. Singapore has the infamous "Four Floors of Whores", Dubai has every hotel in town. Of course with Russian prossies go Russian pimps. Heavy-set men with shaven heads, leather jackets, and menacing eyes that suggest a promising career in the FSB sadly curtailed by the inadvertent irradiation of a west London sushi restaurant or a massacre of Chechen dissidents, broadcast live on CNN. They’re terrifying. But like all good horror movies, you just can’t take your eyes off them. Of course when the alternative is endless Paris Hilton wannabes from Chelmsford, that's not entirely surprising I guess.

So I wouldn’t exactly recommend Dubai as a dedicated holiday destination. But as a stopover at least, it has its charms. Just not as a stopover on the way to the Maldives or Australia or anywhere nice. No, Dubai is best experienced as a stopover on the way home from the Third World. 72 hours since you last ate? A month since your last non-felafel-based meal? Nandos peri-peri chicken is perfect. Find your minimum standards for a place to sleep have slipped a bit: “there’s not too much goat shit there, and I haven’t seen any snakes around here”? A city with 5 star hotels for seventy quid a night is ideal. Yes, if you’ve just finished a season of aid work in Afghanistan, are on your way home from a trip to see the guerrillas (or gorillas) in the Democratic Republic of Congo, or have recently been released after fourteen years chained to a radiator in a Beirut cellar by those nice chaps from Hizballah, by all means head to Dubai for some well deserved r&r. But otherwise don’t bother stopping. Of course none of this applies if you’re from Essex, view Hello magazine as anything other than emergency barbeque fuel, or want to fly thousands of miles to go snowboarding inside a shopping mall in the middle of the fucking desert. In which case you should by all means go to Dubai. And stay there.

The Sound of Silence

I sit in a Bedu tent, made of goatskin and old sacks, drinking tea. As the sun sets, the desert air cools rapidly, and we huddle closer to the camp fire. The wind howls, our resting camels low softly in the distance, but otherwise there is only silence. Despite my limited Arabic, and the limited English of my guide, Suleiman, I chat with our hosts in their immaculate white robes and red and white chequered headdresses. Their questions are endearingly naive.

"Are there Bedu in your country? Deserts? Trees? Birds?"

Each answer is considered carefully, as if it were the sage advice of a prophet, rather than the observations of a slightly scruffy backpacker. Then the line of questioning switches from my far off exotic homeland to my suddenly not-so- personal life. How long am I travelling for? Where is my wife? How many children do I have? With the aid of Suleiman, who as a guide has been exposed to Westerners before and obviously knows a little of their strange ways, I explain that I am unmarried, that in the West people tend to marry later, that I have no children. This is greeted with sceptical laughter.

But what of, ahem, sex? Suleiman and I explain about the concept of girlfriends, dating, pre-marital sex. My audience sits in stunned silence. It's clear that despite their mobile phones and pickup trucks, their exposure to Western culture has been exceedingly limited. They look at me as if I had just told them I'd been to the moon. (As that particular heavenly body illuminates the sand, I briefly consider telling them about Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. After some reflection I decide not to - I fear my credibility would evaporate instantly). Slowly a sly grin creeps across the faces of the younger ones as the implications of sex before marriage become apparent. I feel guilty. As they trudge piously away from the fire to pray, I feel a bit like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

As Suleiman - he does not pray - and I sit in silent contemplation of the odd exchange in which we just participated, an ancient radio set hums quietly. I cannot understand the dialogue from the chat programme, but the music is familiar enough. As if to emphasise the surrealness of the situation, the unmistakable saxophone notes of Kenny G drift across the sands. I cannot contain my laughter. Dinner is served in traditional style. A communal bowl of sticky rice into which we all dip our (right) hands, fashioning a handful of rice into a congealed ball with the fingertips, before gracefully consuming without a hint of spillage. At least that's what the Bedu do; in no time at all I closely resemble an autistic five year old let loose on a rice pudding, with a sticky mess all over my face, hand, and lap. Everyone politely pretends not to notice.

I had long hoped to meet some "non-Westernised" Bedu, and here, in the red desert of southern Jordan, I found them. Suleiman and I had travelled alone, by camel, for two days to reach them. Wadi Rum is not particularly remote and many toursits visit every day. Yet the overwhelming majority do so by 4 wheel drive; early on our first morning we saw literally dozens of them roaring past us, slowing down briefly to take photos of the two eccentrics riding fully laden camels, now in the 21st Century. Part of me wished I was wearing Bedu robes instead of khaki trousers for the full Lawrence of Arabia effect.

Once they had screeched past us in some crazy catch-me-if-you-can race from sight to sight, Suleiman and I settled down to the gentle rhythm of travel by camel. We spoke little, often sharing no more than a couple of words for hours. Suleiman confided in me that he only travels in the desert by camel - he hates large groups of people and goes to the desert in search of silence and solitude. And, oh, what silence there is to be found in the desert. On our first night, having not seen another soul for the best part of six hours, we made camp in the shade of some giant red boulders. After unsaddling the camels and collecting firewood, I scrambled up the rocks to get a better view of the fast-approaching sunset while Suleiman set about preparing dinner. As the sun sank lower in the sky, the already vivid colours of the desert were tinged first orange, then red, and finally purple. Darkness came quickly, and soon an impressive canopy of stars illuminated the cloudless night sky

After a simple enough dinner of rice, potatoes, and bread (Dr Atkins would clearly not approve of Bedu living), washed down with gallons of sweet black tea, we settled in for the evening. As I lay in my sleeping bag on a mattress of desert sand I stared up at the sky and listened to the deafening, echoing silence of the night. As a habitual city-dweller I had always imagined that the phrase "the sound of silence" was a product of Simon and Garfunkel's drug-addled minds; a function of LSD or pot, or coke or whatever else long-haired types with guitars were dropping, smoking or snorting back in the Sixties. Yet at Wadi Rum I finally registered what they were talking about. Granted, it could perhaps have been something to do with the the thick clouds of distinctly "herbal" smoke drifting from the quietly grinning Suleiman, but I like to think it was something more profound.

Of course, the pursuit of silence, solitude and the elusive Bedu were not my only motivations in trekking from Rum to Aqaba by camel. T.E. Lawrence, the enigmatic, almost mythical figure immortalised in David Lean's epic film, Lawrence of Arabia, famously made the same journey in 1917. Unlike Lawrence I was not accompanied into town by a legion of irregular Arab cavalry; nor did I in fact arrive in Aqaba on my trusty humped steed, instead hitch-hiking the last few kilometres into town in the flatbed of a pickup truck driven by a pious family heading home to Saudi Arabia. Yet in some small way I liked to think of myself as following in Lawrence's footsteps.

One of the most enigmatic and most-romaticised figures in modern history, "El Awrens" as he was know in Arabic, made his name by living with the Bedu, speaking their language, adopting their customs, wearing their clothes. By virtue of his acceptance by the Arab leaders, Lawrence was able to assist, advise or lead (depending on who you ask) the Arab Revolt against Ottoman Turkish rule during the First World War, securing a legendary reputation for himself, and in the process doing a great deal to ensure an Allied victory over the Axis Powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Ottoman Turkey. Lawrence's promises of Arab independence, subsequently broken by the Allied governments at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 (much to Lawrence's disgust), still haunt the Middle East today as the artificially-constructed states of Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Jordan, Palestine, Syria and Lebanon, struggle to maintain their existence.

More than once the Bedu remind me of the total artificiality of the national borders in this region, replying with a shrug when I asked where they are from. "Some call it Saudia, some call it Jordan. We call it the desert." Theirs is a tough existence, eked out from some of the harshest conditions on earth; indeed, T.E. Lawrence famously called it "a death in life". Yet as I lay down in the sand, gazed up to the heavens, and listened once more to the awesome, deafening roar of total uninterrupted silence, I found myself starting to dread the return to civilisation. As the great desert explorer Wilfred Thesiger wrote in Arabian Sands: "No man can live this life and emerge unchanged. He will carry, however faint, the imprint of the desert, the brand which marks the nomad; and he will have within him the yearning to return, weak or insistent according to his nature. For this cruel land can cast a spell which no temperate clime can match." I know what he meant.

Roses Are Red

It's often said that prostitution is the oldest profession in the world. While I can't comment on that, after my visit to Petra I can definitely confirm that the art of striptease has a venerable pedigree indeed.

As you saunter down the Siq, the two and a half kilometre long narrow canyon that leads to the ancient rose red Nabatean city, the excitement builds to a new crescendo with each twist and turn. "It's round the next corner, I'm sure", and still, no, no sign of the famous Treasury. And again, "It's round the next corner, I'm sure", and still no. Then, just as bemusement is replacing anticipation, "where can it be?", suddenly there is a glimpse of naked red rock, in the unmistakable form of the left breast of Al Khazneh - the Treasury - familiar from a thousand photos, not to mention the climatic scenes of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. More tantalising glimpses are revealed through the Siq's lacy lingerie, then suddenly you are there, the canyon sheds the last of it's clothing and the canyon opens out to reveal the glory of the Treasury. The Full Monty as it were.

Jordan's number one tourist attraction was recently voted one of the "New Seven Wonders of the World", placing it in such illustrious company as the Taj Mahal, the Coliseum, and Machu Picchu. Of those three, only Machu Picchu can rival Petra for sheer spectacle; while I have not yet visited the others: Chichen Itza, Christ the Redeemer, or the Great Wall of China, I'm not sure any of those sites could come close to the rose red city. For while the Treasury's much- photographed delights capture all the plaudits, the city itself is breathtaking in scale: a vast collection of ruins, the majority directly carved, somewhat improbably, from the series of remote desert canyons and mountains in which Petra is so spectacularly situated.

It would take days to explore the site in its entirety; as well as the size of the place, the heat, the dust, and the steep inclines make it a foreboding place to visit. To avoid the worst of the environment, not to mention the enormous crowds, I made an early start, and was at the Treasury just before 6am. For ten glorious minutes I was totally alone, contemplating the giant facade of columns, urns, and statues in absolute awe. The silence was deafening, eerie; I was alone with the ghosts of the mysterious and long-vanished Nabatean Empire. It was a magical, almost spiritual experience.

And then, the spell was broken. A busload of Slovak tourists arrived, loudly chattering and giggling, reeking of sunscreen, cheap perfume, and the strange canned meats seemingly so beloved of all inhabitants of post-Communist bloc countries. I fled at a brisk pace, actually breaking into a run at one point, and after an hour or so of merely passing contemplation of ruins of such glory as to put the whole of Turkey's wealth of archaeological treasures totally in the shade, eventually reached the Monastery, at Petra's remote northern reaches. Situated high on a bleak mountainside, and blessed with spectacular views over the mountains and desert to Israel in the west, the Monastery is every bit as breath-taking as the Treasury, and that much more special for its relative inaccessibililty to the roaming hordes of tour groups that throng most of Petra each day.

Alas, such is the popularity of the site with travelling halfwits, that Petra is also overrun with "enterprising" locals of the sort who have memorised every tourist pickup line in fourteen different languages. With such gems as "lubbly jubbly" (I say it again, has any Brit, except Del Boy Trotter, ever actually said this phrase?), "Asda price", and "cheap as chips", how could I resist? Resist beating them to death with my dog-eared Lonely Planet, that is.

Still, some poor unfortunates from Mexico fell for the Spanish sales patter, and promptly handed over (I know, because I sat and watched them, in open-mouthed awe) US$150 for a necklace of such staggering tackiness and low grade craftsmanship that it is by now certainly lying forgotten in a wastebin somewhere between Amman and Mexico City. The self-styled "Bedu" (who incidentally have about as much in common with the semi-mythical desert nomads after whom they shamelessly name themselves as I do) could barely contain their mirth at getting away with this outrageous piece of daylight robbery.

The sellers aren't the only ones making a killing at Petra either. The local young men, dark skinned and long-haired, with intense dark brown eyes and exotic-sounding names sit ominously, like vultures, at the edges of the the throngs of sunburned tourists, probing for signs of weakness. And they do not have to probe too hard. I saw numerous young women, some of them attractive, though most heinously fat, ugly, and with a strong suspicion of inbreeding, strolling around in outfits that I would usually classify as underwear. Skimpy underwear at that. Strappy, low cut vests, see through tops, hot pants, skirts so short as to show leopard print thong: all these, and more were on display. People have asked me in the past why so many Arab men regard Western women as whores. The answer is simple. Because by Arab standards, they are. As I watched my second striptease of the day (for the most part, much less aesthetically pleasing than the first I might add), I mused that most of these visitors are whores by Western standards too.

I lingered long after most of the others had left. 12 hours after my first tantalising, breathtaking glimpse of Al Khazneh, I once again walked the quiet, shadowy path through the Siq, glancing back occasionally to catch a last lingering look at the ancient splendour that had so captivated me earlier. It wasn't quite the same. As a number of virile young Bedu would probably be finding out a few hours later, watching women dress is not nearly so exciting as watching them undress. The old lady Petra might be old, and have been around the tracks a bit, but she still hasn't lost her looks, and she puts on one hell of a show.

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The last word goes to John William Burgon, whose famous sonnet, "Petra", immortalised the mythical lost city back in 1845:

It seems no work of Man's creative hand,

by labor wrought as wavering fancy plnned;

But from the rock as by magic grown,

eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!

Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,

where erst Athena held her rites divine;

Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,

that crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;

But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,

that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;

The hues of yough upon a brow of woe,

which Man deemed old two thousand years ago,

match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,

a rose-red city half as old as time.

Put Your Hands Up For...Damascus

5 minutes ago this was one of the worst clubs I'd ever been to. Not really surprising I guess, after all, I am in Damascus, and this is, after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, the fourth holiest site in Islam, and we are currently half-way through the holiest month in the Muslim calendar.

Now, however, after an instant metamorphasis, it's one of the best nights I can remember, anywhere in the world. Gone are the cheesey europop classics, the kitsch disco lighting, and the bizarre ensemble dance routines of the locals (which resembled nothing so much as an odd Michael Flatley/Whirling Dervishes hybrid). Instead, dry ice swirls across the floor, bathed in a strangely cool green light, and the mixed crowd of hip young Syrians and Western Arabic students groove to the latest electronic dance "choons" imported from Europe. There's something very odd about throwing yourself around the dancefloor to a brilliant remix of Pink Floyd's "Brick In The Wall" while sipping a potent gin and tonic, surrounded by beautiful scantily-clad Syrian girls. "Are we really in Damascus?" seemed the most-uttered phrase of the night among the ajnabi (the Arabic equivalent of "gringo", "farang": "foreigner") crowd - at times it was hard to believe.

Four songs into the Ibiza-style electro-dance session, the music abruptly changes track again. Suddenly we're no longer in a Shoreditch warehouse, but are instead in a Walkabout full of snakebite-guzzling antipodeans in rugby shirts as the cheese returns with a vengeance: Men At Work's backpacker classic, "Land Down Under". The Syrians love it, as do the by-now totally bemused Westerners; everyone drinks and dances with complete, gleeful abandon. For a second I'm back at Crush, LSE's "famous" Friday night chaos, as the dj plays a succession of student anthems, culminating in the cult Latin classic, "Bomba", which I sing along to, as always, in complete ignorance of the Spanish lyrics. No-one seems to mind.

Again, after four songs the mood, music, and lighting changes abruptly: suddenly Arab pop predominates, Arabesque lighting illuminates the everpresent clouds of dry ice, and Bollywood-style synchronised dancing rears its ugly head once more. The songs are incredibly catchy even in spite of the almost totally-incomprehensible lyrics: aside from the ubiquitous "habibi" ("my baby, my love") I can't understand a word. For a few minutes at least we're reminded we're in the Middle East - though I suspect this is closer to most people's image of Dubai than Damascus.

In the West we tend to forget that a large minority of Arabs are actually Christian - in Syria it's somewhere in the region of 10% of the population - even among Muslims the British and American tabloid stereotypes of a monolythic mass of rabid religious zealots, frothing at the mouth as they scream "death to the West", are not so much an over-simplification as a total nonsense. While there are clearly a huge number of Syrians for whom a night of drinking and dancing in a club would be total anathema, there are many who couldn't live without it. Alongside the mosques and madrasas, Damascus has its share of ritzy restaurants, designer boutiques, and pretty young girls who'd no more wear a hijab or a burqa than something from GAP or H&M.

It's this contrast which I find so fascinating. As I stroll a little unsteadily homewards at 4.30am , a few blocks from the "Jetset Club" I sense the familiar scent of grilling meat and pitta bread: latenight kebab joints. Yet the shwarma and falafel stalls of Damascus are open not to satisfy the alcohol-inspired munchies of stumbling clubbers, but rather the early-morning hunger of the devout, who with the approaching first rays of sunlight will shortly commence the Ramadan fast.

A few minutes earlier the evening had culminated with a dance track familiar from countless east London clubs. As everyone sang along I realised the locals had changed the lyrics slightly, replacing the home of Motown with the home of the Umayyad Mosque: "put your hands up for Damascus... I love this city".

Quite.

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!