An evening with the falconers of Al Awir

Our convoy of white jeeps sped through the vast desert, towards the impressive dunes that formed the horizon as if determined to disappear into the sand. “Seat belt, please,” the driver, a Southeast Asian said in accent that could be Indian or Pakistani. He was one of the many economic emigrants who have flooded the […]

Our convoy of white jeeps sped through the vast desert, towards the impressive dunes that formed the horizon as if determined to disappear into the sand.
“Seat belt, please,” the driver, a Southeast Asian said in accent that could be Indian or Pakistani. He was one of the many economic emigrants who have flooded the United Arab Emirates to seek jobs. Now there are so many immigrants in the oil-rich state that in the last few days we have spent in the country, it has been challenging spotting the real Emiratis. As it turns out, they happen to be a minority in their own country, constituting less than 12 per cent of the total population, one third the number of Indians in UAE.
It was our last day in the country. We, a bunch of writers who had been speaking at the Sharjah International Book Fair, strapped in as the dunes grew bigger as we approached them at top speed.
We had no clear idea what to expect when we set out from our hotel in Sharjah. The programme had only said “dinner in the desert” and by 3pm, huge white jeeps have come by the hotel to collect us and drive us to what some of us thought was a very early dinner. There was a mention of “dress comfortably” in the memo.
We had set out from Sharjah, one of the seven small kingdoms that united in 1971 to form the UAE, and headed east and then south on the Emirates Road until we drove past all the glittering buildings of the city and arrived the outskirts, where new structures are being built. There were hints of desert sand here. And from there, there were only dust patches that stretched as far as the eyes can see.
We saw our first camels here. Driven by a turbaned herdsman, whose figure flitted by as we drove past. The animals ambled on, stopping at the few shrubs that peeked through the sand, munching slowly in ways that made their long faces look comical as their jaws moved from side to side.
Minutes later, we arrived a camp in the desert, with a herd of camels enclosed in a wire fence. Here we waited for the rest of the convoy to meet up. People got out of the jeeps and whipped out their cell phones. The camels were friendly. Two in particular. One was white, a beautiful beast, and it marched towards the visitors and lowered its neck for a cuddle. Camera shutters clicked, selfies with the camel were taken.
One of the camels might have envied the celebrity treatment the white camel was getting and decided to join the show. The writers weren’t sure about this one. His mouth looked weird. It was missing all its teeth and its lower lip hung open at an odd angle, like it might have suffered a stroke. But soon we realised it only wanted a cuddle, even if it was a bit over-eager with the way it went about it.
With the convoy now full, we bade the camels farewell and headed further into the desert where the dunes were.
Dune Bashing
The dunes filled the windscreen as our jeep raced towards them. In a swoop we raced up it, and right at the very top swerved diagonally and rather sharply, speeding at a steep incline along the spine and jeep leaned as if it would topple over and roll downhill. A shower of dust flanked the jeep, like wings that died off as the car drove past.
The passengers in the car yelped in shock and gripped the handrails on the roof of the car. It was such a shock manoeuvre none of the passengers saw it coming. But before they could catch their breath, the jeep was racing down the dunes and then up another one. Again and again, speeding along the spines at awkard angles and making rather sudden turns at the very peak of the dunes.
We laughed.
“Can you take it easy,” of the passengers said uneasily.
“Is there a chance that we could topple over?” another asked.
“We do this all the time,” the driver said assuredly.
Seeing how the jeeps followed each other up and down the dunes in an exhilarating ride, it was easy to agree with the driver. They know the sands, they know the dunes. They make a living doing this.
“Every evening,” the driver said, “for years.”
On and on the ride went, up and down, one white jeep trailing another. Until the lead car decided we should stop and explore the desert. The cars parked. We climbed out and tried to walk up the dunes. It was difficult as the sand gave way under your feet.
“Take off your shoes,” our guide said.
Bare foot, I climbed up the dune, my entire legs sank deep into the sand with each step as I climbed, admiring the wave-like patterns the winds have drawn on the sands. At the top, I stood and looked around me, wondering how the Arabs of old navigated this vast, treacherous lands, and how they found their way home, often with very little water or food. My admiration for the camels we had seen earlier grew.
The falconers
 The drive back was far more serene. No dune bashing and no racing hearts. The jeeps drove towards the setting sun, heading for the desert camp where we were scheduled to have dinner when we spotted some half dozen figures of white-jallabiya-clad men sitting in the sand, their legs neatly folded under their bodies in solemn postures akin to prayer poses. There were children too. About four of them, sitting still, gazing ahead.
The jeeps they had come in were parked nearby.
Our convoy stopped and the lead driver stepped out to talk to the men in the sand.
“Who are they? What are they doing?” I asked.
“They are falconers,” our driver said.
There was a buzz of excitement in the car. The passengers stretched their necks to catch a better glimpse.
“They are training the falcons now.”
“Can we see them?” one of the passengers asked.
“When they are in training, they don’t want them coming in contact with humans,” the driver said, “but wait, he has gone to ask.” He gestured in the direction of the lead driver.
Just then, the lead driver turned to the convoy and beckoned. Excited, we climbed off the car onto the sand and walked over to the falconers. They rose to welcome us.
“Salam alaikum.”
The words were thrown around. Hands were shaken. The children were asked by their parents to step aside. And behold there were four medium-sized falcons their eyes hooded, perched on falcon blocks driven into the sand.
Falconry is an ancient art with earliest records about it dating back to Mesopotamia (now modern day Iraq) some four thousand years ago. It grew to be a popular sport and status symbol in Medieval Europe, the Middle East and the Mongolian Empire. Birds of prey such as falcons and eagles are trained to hunt for sport.
And what we had just stumbled upon was a training session not only for the birds, but for the children as well.
“It is a family business,” Ahmed, one of the falconers said in stuttering English. “We are training the birds, and we are training the children.”
“Why are their eyes hooded?” I asked.
“Because if they see anything in the sky, they would want to go and hunt it,” Ahmed said.
I looked at the talons on the birds, long and strong-looking claws, ready to pierce into smaller birds. They were restless, the falcons, heads swerving from side to side.
“Here, we put the hoods over their eyes, but at home, we take them off,” he explained.
One of the falconers took one of the birds off its perch, took of the hood and set it loose. The bird darted off into the fiery sky until it was only a speck in the distance. And then the falconer pulls out a bird lure (an object designed to look like a bird with outstretched wings tied to a string). Holding the end of the string, he throws the lure in the air and started spinning, making cat calls as he did so.
Soon enough the falcon turned, covering great distance in no time, it arrived and swooped in on the lure, which the falconer pulled away from the bird’s claw just as it was about to grab it. The lure went up again and the falcon scythed in the air, elegantly, hovering only briefly before sweeping down at speed towards the lure. And again the object is pulled away. It was a spectacle: the darting falcon in the evening sky, the lure going up and down and the voice of the Arab calling the bird’s attention to prey.
“Are these ones ready to hunt yet?”
“These ones are not ready to hunt yet,” Ahmed explains. “They are young.”
One of the falconers offered tea from flasks they had brought along with them. They had an endless supply of disposable cups and more than enough tea to go round. The tea was strong with robust flavour.
Ahmed explained that falconry has always been in their family and that they have some other falcons at home. They don’t hunt for food but for sport. It is an old and prestigious custom.
We were fascinated by these creatures. We took photos of them perched on the block with the sun setting in the background, just beyond the desert horizon.
“Can we carry them?” One of the writers asked.
Ahmed seemed unsure at first. But after turning to his brothers, they nodded and he offered us the heavy leather gloves to protect against the talons of the bird as they perched on one’s hand.
We took turns at this.
When it was my turn, Ahmed mounted the falcon on the gloves and slipped the glove onto my hand. The bird flapped its wings several times and then finally settled down. I wish I could see its eyes then as it rested on my gloved hand but even with the gloves on, the claws looked like they could rip little birds apart, not to mention tender human skin.
After the photo ops, our guides informed us that it was about time we headed for our dinner.
We thanked Ahmed and the other falconers for their hospitality, climbed up our jeeps and drove towards the sunset.
An Arabian night entertainment
In the car we talked about the beauty and elegance of the falcons and marvelled at the skill and wisdom of the falconers until we arrived the desert camp. Here there were camels sitting and chewing cud, waiting for us. Three of them with red quilts over their backs. They offered short rides around the entrance of the camp.
The camel ride was surprisingly comfortable as the beasts lumbered from one foot to another. I imagined that the longer the ride got, the less comfort one would derive from it, but in that short foray, I was overcome by the sheer serenity the caravan riders of old must have enjoyed as they crossed the desert, looking at the clear skies and the stars sprinkled in the firmament. There was more than enough room for meditations on these journeys, I imagine.
The camp is a tourist destination, hedged on one end by a sandy hill from where sand skaters could slalom down. It is something that requires some balance and since I have never done ice skating before, I don’t imagine they are quite the same. But there is something exhilarating about riding downhill on a skate board.
There was a shisha tent for those interested and in one of the stalls there was a woman armed with henna guns, squirting out temporary tattoos on the skins of desiring customers.
In one corner there was a sand artist and his stand, where he used sand to capture typical desert sceneries in bottles, in which he could also draw camels and any chosen inscriptions. Talk about messages written in sand in a bottle.
For entertainment, there was a Moroccan dancer in a flamboyant dress, with a flayed base, which, among other things, lighted up as he spun around and around endlessly to the tune of music. How he managed to retain his balance all through while manoeuvring some ornate disc and displaying various patterns was beyond me.
The buffet was a sumptuous meal served very hot. We sat as night and the desert chills fell discussing life and literature in Russia and Wales and the different countries we had come from. But somewhere deep in my mind the silhouette of that hovering falcon loomed.