Friday Night Gahwa in Wadi Shees

Friday night in Wadi Shees certainly looked different from Dubai. 

The tiny Emirati town rested only steps from the Oman border, its one paved road home to a primary school, a mosque, and a small grocer. I could count the houses on both hands, the stop signs on one. The terraced farms stretched up into the surrounding mountains – the rising peaks of the Hajar and layer of green date palms providing a much-needed respite from the setting desert sun. 

It certainly looked different from the glittering yachts and towering skyscrapers of Dubai. But it sounded just as cheerful. 

The rev of a car engine shook the village, followed by a chorus of joyful shrieks. As the small mosque emptied after evening prayer, local children eagerly clambered onto a large jeep, squealing with delight as the driver revved the engine with budding anticipation. With all the young passengers happily draped off the frame, the car began its short journey through the town, laughter ringing through the evening air at every bump in the road. 

One small rider emerged from the backseat, her tiny hands gripping the open window and her dark eyes scanning the road ahead with a fearful excitement. Her gaze met mine for a moment as the car rumbled past. Unlatching one small hand from the frame, she began to wave it eagerly.

“Hi!” Her greeting had attracted the attention of some of the other children, who also began to wave in our direction. I raised my hand in reply, shouting a hello in return. My response was met with a jubilant chorus of squeals from the passerby, inviting a back-and-forth of waves and hellos that continued until the car rounded the bend, out of sight. 

Even with the acceleration gradually muffled by the mountains, the town of Wadi Shees was still lively on this particular evening. Nearby, a group of women prepared a picnic under the awning of a mud-brick home. Bowls of plump dates rested amongst stacks of fresh fruit and a platter of luqaimat sat steaming in the middle, clearly fresh from the oil.

Further down the road, the men of the village also picniked in an even livelier manner, their shouts resounding through the wadi. If I’d learned anything living in the Arab world, it was that volume remained the same regardless of circumstance. Anger, joy, excitement, concern – they were all expressed in the same tone. A loud one. 

“You!” The voice was aimed at us this time. The men had noticed us, the oldest of the group now motioning in our direction. “Come! Eat!”

I briefly looked at my partner, engaging in a silent conversation of “what do you think?” before turning to accept the offer. The men were ecstatic, even more so when blonde-haired, blue-eyed Thomas quickly greeted them in Arabic. “As Salaam Alaikum.” Peace be upon you.

“Where are you from?” The oldest of the group once again spoke as we settled on the large carpet. He was clearly the patriarch of the group, his head covered by a checkered keffiya held in place with a woolen agal. He sat on a cushioned bench, rising above the rest of the group as if to symbolize his role amongst the younger men. 

“The USA,” I barely managed to finish before a younger member of the group had cut in. “Coffee?” he asked us, more of a statement than a question. The brew was already being poured from the long-spouted dallah, the small cups placed in our hands. The steam from the gahwa seemed to rise through me and as I took a sip the warmth traveled from my lips to the tips of my toes. I could already feel a familiar rush of energy as the bitter drink worked its way through my bloodstream. 

The older man had heard my answer, his interest clearly piqued. “You are welcome here in our village.” He took a sip from his own cup. “Your home is in the USA, but your home is also here. Whatever you need – food, a place to stay, you have it here with us.”

I had certainly heard about Arab hospitality before arriving in the UAE, but still often found myself unprepared for the degree to which it extended. Invitations to meals were abundant, food always overflowing. Most strangers I encountered would rather give me the clothes off their own back then let me pay for my own cup of coffee. 

Knowing someone for five minutes and receiving an invitation to stay indefinitely was not an uncommon experience, nor did it only apply to us. Another car rumbled down the small road, a lone traveler on his way to Madha, and the men quickly erupted into a chorus of “Stop! Eat!” The youngest boy, with jet-black hair only beginning to appear on his upper lip, rose quickly and darted into the road, stopping the driver in his tracks as the others continued with their lively invitations. 

With travelers old and new gathered around the mat, food and conversation continued. No matter how much we ate there was still more to be eaten. Fresh dates, purple and plump and sweeter than candy sat overflowing in a large dish. Juicy watermelon and ripe cantaloupe cooled our mouths in between bites of luqaimat. Sweet khabees, topped with fiery saffron, was scooped into a bowl and placed in my hands. 

“You like it?” A broadly jawed man asked me expectantly I spooned the toasted flour into my mouth. I nodded vigorously as my tongue found a golden raisin, then a sweet pistachio. The flavor was extraordinary, yet unlike anything I’d ever tasted.

Nearby, the oldest man spoke to someone on the phone in Arabic. I saw Thomas’ eyes dart ever so slightly, knew he was listening in. He turned to me. 

“He’s telling someone to come outside,” he whispered. “He told them there are Americans here for him to meet.”

As if on cue, a younger man approached our group from the nearby row of houses. Like all the men, he wore a long white kandora, but his head was wrapped in a clean white ghutra. His face reflected that of the older man but softened at the edges and veiled by a trim black beard. 

“My son Ali,” the oldest man introduced us as Ali poured himself a cup of gahwa. Ahmed smiled, taking a seat beside his father on the bench. 

“All the way from the USA!” Ali spoke with little accent but with careful precision, as if taking the time to find the right words. His smile widened as Thomas responded in Arabic. “Naeam, lakinana naeish fi Dubai.” Yes, but we live in Dubai. 

“Welcome to our country, welcome to our village.” Ali motioned to the surrounding wadi with his hand. “You know, I also know your country as well.” His gaze returned to us. 

“A few years ago, I traveled to Chicago in the winter. For model UN in year ten. It was the coldest I’ve ever been in my life.” His eyes widened for a moment and he took a sip of his coffee, as if reliving the feeling.

I laughed, also shuddering at the thought of winter in Chicago. The surrounding landscape of date palms and sand dunes couldn’t have been more different from the freezing shores of Chicago, and I had to say I preferred the warmth. 

Ali was laughing too. “Don’t worry!” he said. “I still loved the USA. The fast food – it was so good!” 

We laughed even more, noting the assortment of food right in front of us. Not wanting to offend his father, Ali quickly grabbed a large date from a bowl and took a bite. 

In the midst of conversation, we hadn’t noticed the broadly jawed man spooning the remaining khabees from the large silver pot into an aluminum tin. Sealing the top, he placed it in front of me, a smile filling his face as I accepted the gift. 

“Come again!” they all echoed when it is time for us to leave. With promises to return we began our trek back, fueled by gahwa and carrying a tin of Arab hospitality in our hands. 

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