‘The desert.’
‘Well, duh. And?’
‘And... wait and see.’
I cling to Kai’s hand as we begin to move, even more so as we’re jostled around the interior as the SUV lurches and climbs across the once distant dunes. The three men chat amiably in Arabic, Kai relating their conversation as I force myself to nod grimaced responses. To be honest, I neither listen, nor give a flying fuck, about our surroundings. I’m too busy trying to control the urge to hurl.
‘You okay?’ Kai questions during one particularly rapid descent.
‘I’m fine.’ I push my lips together in what I hope resembles a smile. ‘At the risk of sounding like a whinging kid, are we there yet?’
‘Nearly.’ He laughs, patting my hand.
When we finally stop, in what seems like, an age later, I climb gratefully from the vehicle into, what appears to be, a small camp consisting of a Bedouin style tent and a smattering of low seating on the sand. It’s pretty basic but welcoming enough. I drink greedily from the bottle of water I’m handed; the heat of the afternoon hitting me after the cool interior of the car.
‘What’s the plan?’ I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Kai indicates the tent with a tilt of his head, as a boy of about fifteen walks toward us. Dressed in a scarf and a palekandurarobe, his leather covered arm is outstretched and held at an angle in front of his chest. Perched on the heavy leather glove sits a golden bird; beady eyes, razor sharp talons and beak.
‘A falcon?’
‘Actually, she’s a blonde sakeret. We’re going hunting,’ Kai replies with a wide smile. Trying to return his enthusiasm is difficult but somehow I manage some semblance of a smile, swallowing the return of my nausea.
‘Don’t you want to?’
His smile falters and I feel like an ungrateful cow. I wanted the Arabian experience, this must be some part of it, mustn’t it? One of our guides, companions or whatever they are, then mutters something in Arabic and there follows a smattering of laughter. Kai laughing softly along with them. Great. Now they’re taking the piss.
‘They’re saying perhaps you don’t have the stomach for it.’
‘They’d be right,’ I mutter.
‘You wanted traditional.’
‘Cockroach racing in Brisbane is traditional once a year, but I don’t take part in that either,’ I say under my breath.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’ I draw the word out with a shake of my head, having regressed to a belligerent teen. This definitely isn’t Disney’s Arabia. Hunting. Just the word makes me feel ill. Blood and death are not my idea of a romantic afternoon.
‘We’re not really going hunting,’ Kai says, leaning forward and whispering now. ‘It takes hours, a dogged perseverance, and a great deal of stamina, and I have no intention of tiring you out before later.’ He straightens, his gaze confirming exactly what he means, his eyes flicking over me, lingering in certain areas quite lasciviously.
An hour or so later, I’ve decided I’m actually having fun. Sure, the birds look unnerving in their medieval executioner-type hoods. And, yes, they also eat cute, furry things, things I’d rather not see hanging dead from their talons, but they’re also extraordinarily graceful and beautiful, in a very startling way. Very much like Kai.
I even wear the leather glove at one point, the bird sitting dispassionately on my arm, its golden plumage ruffling as though sensing my unease. I hand it back shortly afterwards, glad to be rid of the thing. But the highlight for me has to be watching Kai as he stands bold against the desert backdrop, his regal bearing not dissimilar to the birds, the joy of being there painted on his face.
Handing the bird over to Mohammed, Kai offers me a hand to help me from the ground.
‘Have you had fun?’
‘Yeah, the view’s spectacular.’
He turns his head over his shoulder, nodding in agreement and missing my private joke. Then, pulling me to his chest, he leans over me, brushing the sand from my pants with more force than is absolutely necessary.
‘Oi, watch it!’ I laugh as I pull myself free and walk to the car.
‘This was once their livelihood.’ Kai gestures to Mohammed and his son on our return journey. ‘The Bedouin used falcons to hunt food for sustenance, rather than for sport.’
‘A harsh existence I imagine, living out here.’
