Our first inkling we had of their
existence came in the middle of a desert. The tire-sliding plunges into
sun-scorched sand dunes in the Abu Dhabi wadi
left me nauseous instead of breathless.
“Stop. Pull over,” I called to the driver of our four-wheel drive. “I’m
gonna throw up!”
My husband got out and held me as I retched into the sand.
After a number of unscheduled stops, Mohamed—a local we didn’t know
until this trip—elbowed Ihab in the ribs. “Walaa!
Just leave her if she likes the sand so much.”
Ihab threw up his
arms in the Arab way. “What can I do?” But he made a comical face at me to show
he cared more about me than his Arab brother inside the car.
That evening, I felt better. We gorged on a meal of lamb and rice, and
washed it down with pomegranate juice. Ihab and I lay under a starry sky
outside our tent, letting the exotic music and gyrations of the belly dancer
steal over us.
“What if I am pregnant?” I
whispered.
My husband kissed me and murmured, “Then that would be pretty
exciting.”
Newly married, everything seemed possible.
