Journeying in Arabian Deserts

The ides of August finds me translating a chapter on Prophet Muhammad's (p.b.u.h.) hijrat - journey from Mecca to Madina- and reading Thesiger's travels in the 'empty quarter'. It is very interesting to read similar descriptions- waterskins covered with cloth, milking strangers' camels or goats, and again strangers appearing from nowhere to inform you about the road or your enemy's movements.
Not long before Ramadan now.

Here's a fresh look on Rory

This is on his Places in Between. The arguments may come in handy if for some reason I start disliking him at one point:

The argument of this book is that the people of Afghanistan are aggressive, primitive savages, something less than real people, animals who need the civilising hand of foreign domination to bring them to the promised land - which seems to amount to something like the mid-Victorian British empire.

Stewart travels to 'unknown' places that writers have been describing for decades, and produces cliches in ranks - they only appear fresh to us because the writing style he copies is itself so dated that nobody else writes like that any more.

Cricket

It was always difficult to get another women's team to play and that day our luck had turned- almost. The other college's team was a woman short and so we had technically won, but there was going to be a friendly anyway. So our captain looked through the ranks to, possibly, give the other one what she considered a liability. The least sporty of the team were me and a girl with an Irish accent 'Nagihan can bowl pretty well, she should go for it' she said all of a sudden. I was rather happy to be playing at all, and so I went over to the other team.

As it is, what the girl was saying turned out to be true- sort of. When it was my turn to bowl I gave it my all and yet when the ball hit the ground, it had no life left in it, and it sort of sauntered towards the wicket and I wondered whether it would even make it to the line. But then, taken unawares by this slow progress the batswoman lost sight of it and pop it went to the wicket under her very nose and hit it! The other college's team couldn't quite believe their luck and they all came to me and did the whole cricket tap on the shoulder, 'Good show' sort of thing. I protested that I wasn't good at all and that it was a freak incident, the ball hadn't even bounced. The captain of the team said assuredly "Bouncing is overrated".

Then my 'trick' repeated itself a number of times, because really, I had no armpower whatsoever. After securing the team's 'friendly' victory I was out and I approached the boys who were keeping the score. All our coaches (who were all male) had gathered together on this day- I had never seen them so all together and they were quite a sight with their public school boy
(h)airs and cricket sweaters. They had enormous smirks on their faces and were laughing totally absorbed with themselves. They had not seen me coming. When I approached them in order to get into the pavillion for water I heard one of them say sarcastically "Whatever you say, cricket's the winner". Then he lifted his head up from the score log where he was scribbling beside my name and saw me and for a moment his face froze with guilt. The others first looked at him and then at me. I smiled and said 'I should say it is'.

Past Imperfect

Reading about Fellowes' account of his characters' infamous night somewhere between Estoril and Cascais, I felt the obligation to write down my own not so scandalous but memorable evening on the very same shores. Nostalgia is a terribly contagious thing.

It was, naturally, another conference, my very first in fact. As is the tradition with conferences that run a week long there is a climax that usually comes midweek- an outing, a dinner that the hosts provide. Our Portuguese hosts had thought that this should be a dinner at the Estoril Casino. We took the slow train from Cascais - on the way back we'd realized it was quite within walking distance- and got off at Estoril, and the casino was quite unmissable, at the end of a park that sprawled all the way to the rail tracks which were right by the rocky shore. We took photographs in the fading light as everyone had dressed up more or less and we wanted to have documents to prove it later I suppose. As we approached the grand entrance I felt upbeat and said something to the effect of 'It could be interesting. We could see someone famous or something.' 'The Devil?' J interjected gleefully as he always liked to check how much the ways of European heathens gave me discomfort. As usual, I only smiled.

Passing the ever so sorry looking slot machines we moved into the great salon and were seated in some sort of balcony. It was pretty dark as the first course arrived- some kind of onion soup. We had contrived to sit across a very funny English academic and were trying our best to bring the 'absent-minded professor' in him. Then there was light on the stage and a boring array of men and women appeared dressed as tropical fruits. In the din, there was no way I could ask the waiter whether they had a vegetarian option and with the English prof's performance rather dull this evening I considered making an early exit, though I had no idea how I would go back to Cascais on my own at that hour. I looked at the slobs of meat the others were eating and then turned right to see that the female dancers were taking their tops off. I took this to be my exit cue and excused myself promptly and when I turned my back to the table to go J was trying to shout from behind 'But how are you going to....' Indeed, I did not know, but it was nice to get out into the fresh air. I loitered a bit in the park, and then decided I should brave the walk to Cascais. Once I had taken that decision I saw another group leaving the place and a rather worried J said 'We looked everywhere for you!' and another one of them added 'Yes, well, there was mass exodus after the second course, I don't think the entertainment helped'.
And so we all merrily walked back to our hotel in Cascais.

The Empire Does NOT Stop Here

So I have been spending quite a bit of time on amazon lately and it keeps throwing writers at me, and this evening it's Philip Parker. I google to get to know him better and there's a guardian podcast. Excellent. The startled interviewer asks 'I did not know, for instance, that Romania was part of the Roman Empire' (come off it whatever substance it is you are on- look at the name woman!) Anyhow, she has presence enough to ask the million dollar question 'Could you compare the Roman Empire with any examples we know of today?' Philip toys with the idea of China when it comes to population but then concedes: 'The British Empire at its height would be something comparable". And on that note the podcast ends. Gimme a break.
Bring on the Gibbon.

Reporting from Antandrus, the Aegean Coast

Having recently read in the Tatler that when it comes to beachwear you cannot beat the triangular bikini (market research I was carrying out for a friend of a friend) I headed down to the Aegean with my family who had packed up my beach-bag for me because I was otherwise engaged in northern climes. This is our first experience at a mixed-beach, and strangely one that caters to practicing Muslims. Which means there are a lot of what has been named 'burqinis' on the ground.
What my mother chose to buy for me is a very orange affair that no doubt would qualify me for the national Indian hijabi swimming team. Baggy trousers and a loose long sleeved top with a zipper that looks like a footballer's training suit- which, it turns out, is very last year, or very last decade as I discovered on the beach when I saw all manner of burquinis, from the very sporty looking to the dandy.