Travels with my Hat

LA MAJORELLE: MAGIC GARDEN IN MARRAKESH

2012-01-21T17:12:00.000-08:00

As a child, I used to imagine a door set in a high wall and on pushing it open, I could pass into a peaceful and sweetly scented haven.

Visiting Marrakesh many years later, I found just such a place - not as you might imagine, in the old medina - but in the Nouvelle Ville built during the French period of administration in Morocco. Set in a high rose-pink wall was the door of my imagination, and while only steps from busy souks, inside was a thousand miles from the madding crowd of faux-guides and salesmen.

Carrying a basket of lycra cycling shorts, a final persistent tout had followed me along the Avenue Yaccoub el Mansour, imploring me to spend my dirhams.

“Pour votre mari madame, pour votre fils!” he cajoled, until eager to be left in peace, I told him my husband was dead and unfortunately so too was my son, and that as a middle-aged woman, I had no use for such apparel.

Following a dramatic pause, he pulled a Rolex out of his pocket but I was already pushing open the door of my childhood fantasies.

Inside I found myself in a lush oasis of still pools surrounded by exuberantly growing plants –groves of bamboo, banana trees and date-palms, hedges of golden lantana, pink and scarlet bougainvillea, cascades of pale blue plumbago and lilac wisteria. Every shade was represented yet the overall colour was blue: not the turquoise of Moroccan ceramics, but a rich cobalt blue covering pavilions, pergolas, pots, and poolside structures and known as bleu Majorelle.

The original plot was created by the late nineteenth French artist Jacques Majorelle who travelled widely in a quest of beauty before settling in Marrakesh. An enthusiastic botanist, Majorelle made frequent trips into the nearby Atlas mountains to collect plants for his little paradise on the hot red plains and as his interest developed, he exchanged specimens with green-fingered colleagues in other parts of the world. Plants from five continents now flourish among indigenous species.

When Majorelle died in 1962, his widow sold the garden, but subsequent proprietors allowed it to become overgrown until the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge, purchased it in 1980 and began reclaiming it from wilderness.

Although La Majorelle lies in the middle of urban Marrakesh, inside its walls you are close to nature. I glimpsed a chameleon sunning itself on a branch, while a large green frog sat motionless on a lily-pad. The garden hosts some fifteen species of birds attracted to its water and greenery. Resting on a bench beneath fragrant jasmine, I heard the trill and coo of bul-buls and turtle-doves and a gardener, on seeing my interest, explained you can sometimes catch the magic warble of a nightingale.

Majorelle’s former studio has been converted into a small museum housing Moroccan arts and crafts. These include silver jewellery worn by Saharan tribes, Berber rugs woven on hand-looms in the Atlas, woodwork and ceramics from the personal collection of YSL whose ashes were scattered in the garden following his death in 2008.

The garden is open all year: 8am-12 noon and 2.00 to 5.00 during winter and 8.00 until 18.00 summer. Admission: 40 dirhams.

TRAVELLING HAT RECIPE

2012-01-01T03:26:00.000-08:00

THAI ROAST DUCK CURRY

½ Chinese-style roast duck, chopped and with loose bones removed

4 tablespoons olive oil

1 large onion, finely sliced

1 teaspoon of turmeric, ½ teaspoon curry powder

2 cubes crushed garlic

1 tablespoon crushed fresh ginger root

1 stick bruised lemon grass

2 sliced and seeded small red chillies

50 m chicken stock

100 m coconut milk

5 tablespoons of grated coconut block

Juice of half a fresh lime

Dash of nom-pla (Thai fish sauce)

Fresh coriander leaves

Preparation

Heat oil in a pan and fry onion, garlic and raw chilli until soft. Stir in all the spices and simmer for 3 minutes. Add the lemon grass and pour in the hot chicken stock. Add the coconut milk and the cream of coconut, the lime-juice and finally the pieces of chopped duck. Allow to simmer for 10 minutes on a low heat. .Remove when hot and garnish with fresh coriander leaves. Serve with steamed Thai rice.

Serves 3-4 persons

Images: www.copix.co.uk

BALI BEHIND THE MASK

2011-12-26T06:51:00.000-08:00

In the mountains of central Bali lies the village of Kintamani, a magical, almost spiritual place, a world away from the crowded coastal resorts.

Standing there at dusk I inhaled a scent of pine-log fires and listened to sounds drifting up from the valley: the dull clonk of cow bells, the hoarse cough of a herdsman and the soulful cry of the kik-kik-kir bird. Suddenly the mist parted revealing Gunung Batur, one of several volcanoes smoking gently in the island core and Kala –God of Darkness, plunged Kintamani into night.

Nehru called Bali ‘The Morning of the World’. Other visitors, equally smitten, have described it as ‘paradise’ and by the end of my own stay, I truly felt that Bali offers a challenge to the general concept of whatever this means.

The island was unknown outside Indonesia until discovered by hippies in the 1960s when hotel development began along the beaches of Sanur and Kuta. Such tourist resorts are today found everywhere, but close observation shows traditional Balinese life continues.

Sanur is the stage for a colourful daily pageant regulated by the moon and tides.

The curtain rises at dawn when people wade through the lagoon netting tiny fish to sell to hotel aquariums. Act II begins around seven when fishermen put to sea in long-prowed gadjaminas. At eight the bait-men start burrowing in the beach for worms and within an hour only their hats are visible above the sand. The stall-people unlock their shacks around nine and lay out batiks and kites for passers-by, then at noon, the satay-people start cooking kebabs over charcoal fires. Interval occurs during the hot afternoon, but when night falls the ‘shrimp men’ arrive with lamps and nets when the black lagoon ripples with lights as they tramp back and forth flipping prawns into baskets on their backs. Finally, at high tide the bait men return to fish until dawn when the play begin all over again.

Superstition inhibits the Balinese from having more contact with the sea. They believe the coastal lowlands are inhabited by spirits of the underworld, that the middle-world is for humans and that mountains are the dwelling place of Gods.

The best way to explore Bali is to hire a motor-scooter and follow ‘byways’ to its rural heartland. On either side, terraced rice-fields climb like stairways to the sky, ribbons of water cascade over velvety banks and armies of ducks sift the mud for eels. The Balinese are Indonesia’s best rice-growers and wherever you look, farmers are either planting or harvesting their crop.

On the road to Bedugal, about 1,500 metres above sea level, you notice a nip in the air. Rice gives way to cabbages and coffee and fog closes over the sugar-cane. Reindeer-like cattle graze on the hillsides and a Peter-Pan like child sits on a rock playing a wooden flute.

Suddenly the rippling cords and pounding drums of a gamelan fill the air as rounding a bend comes a procession of people bearing flowers and fruits to be offer at a temple ceremony. In their midst a barong covered in shaggy hair, flashing mirrors and jingling bells leaps and dances like a circus prop. A mythical lion, it is revered as an antidote to evil. Then as abruptly as it has appeared, the procession disappears through a wall of bamboo.

Only two miles separate Bali and Java, but the Balinese have preserve their unique form of Hinduism against Islam practised elsewhere in Indonesia. Each village has several temples where gods and spirits must constantly be appeased and every house has a shrine where offerings of rice, flowers and fruits are made together with fragrant incense.

Balinese-Hinduism aims to maintain a balance between good and evil. Life moves in harmony with nature which manifests itself in natural artistic expression. In villages such as Mas and Ubud, every family member is an artist carving, weaving and making silver jewellery.

Painting is the most exuberant local talent. In past times it was channelled into large, decorative panels in temples and palaces, for religious scrolls and astrological calendars. A good example is the exuberant ceiling of the Kerta Gosa, Hall of Justice, in the eighteenth century capital of Klungkung.

Ten days is an ideal time to spend on Bali. Ten weeks later you may want to stay ten years, or even a lifetime as many foreign artists did - among them Walter Spies, Rudolf Bonnet and the Australian painter Donald Friend.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

HAIL TO THE HAT !

2011-12-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

Since I activated the website about my forthcoming book - TRAVELS WITH MY HAT - several people have enquired about “The Hat”of the title.

The original blue denim hat, noticed by Her Majesty on our tour of Arabia, was wrenched off my head during a monsoon squall and sank beneath waves in the Bay of Bengal.

The present Hat has been my travelling companion for twenty-five years. And I still wear it. Most recently on a visit to the Western Sahara. But now that it has become famous - its picture is on Twitter - I'm naturally nervous that it too, might fly off when least expected.

Hopefully not. For it must be around for any book signing when I shall certainly wear it. I wouldn’t dare not.

Hail to The Hat! Some of the countries it has visited include India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Tahiti, Oman, Egypt, Singapore, Malaysia, Korea, Thailand, Tanzania.

Like the original one, it was bought at “River Island” in Oxford Street, London which now sells hideous headgear. No sign of anything in blue denim ...

Images of The Hat from left to right:

1 In the Luangwa Valley in Zambia

2 Tiger-fishing on the Zambesi

3 With Masai elders in Kenya

4 On safari in Amboseli National Park

5 When the Hat was young--- Federated Tribal Agencies of Pakistan

www.travelswithmyhat.com

THE LEGENDARY LYRE FROM UR

2011-12-10T07:51:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from Chapter 4: Middle East Nightmare

The next day, I took a taxi to the Iraq National Museum founded by Gertrude Bell, the great Orientalist, political officer and archaeologist who spoke both Arabic and Persian. Here under a single roof, I could finally feast on treasures from Mesopotamia and forget the crude public relations exercise of previous days. And evidently satisfied I could do no harm, the minder sat on the steps smoking a cigarette, leaving me free to explore alone.

The museum was deathly quiet except for my footsteps on the wooden floor. I passed the Warka Vase, a giant alabaster vessel engraved with processions of naked men bearing offerings to Inana, the Sumerian Goddess of Love and War. Glass cases displayed ancient pottery and sculptures, cuneiform tablets from Sumerian and Babylonian times, and stunning stone reliefs from the palace of the Assyrian king Sargon II at Khorsabad. Among this abundance of priceless objects, I wanted to find the Golden Lyre from the burial chamber of Queen Pu-Abi, who lived in the celebrated city of Ur.

Excavation of the royal tombs by Sir Leonard Woolley in 1929 had discovered a munificence of grave goods: a head-dress made of golden leaves; extravagant necklaces and belts; a chariot adorned with lioness’ heads in silver along with golden rings and bracelets. The legendary lyre had been found standing upright against a wall of the pit. Beside it lay the bodies of thirteen maidservants with beautiful adornments—retainers sacrificed to serve their mistress in another world.

‘It would seem,’ said Sir Leonard ‘as if the last player had her arm over the harp, certainly she played till the end.

Suddenly picked out by a shaft of sunlight, I saw the lyre encrusted with lapis lazuli and with the gold-bearded bull on the front representing Shamash, the Sun God and hopeless at anything musical myself, I shivered with excitement as I imagined Sumerian fingers plucking its strings some 5,000 years ago.

My thoughts were interrupted by the minder creeping up behind me. In order to reach Hatra before dusk, he indicated we had to leave. Now! He was the same pock-faced man who had shadowed me since my arrival in Baghdad and the only time he spoke on the journey north was when we passed Tekrit.

‘Saddam Hussein!’ he said, jerking a finger at the town where Saddam was born in 1937 and where Saladdin with whom the Iraqi president liked to compare himself, had been born 800 years earlier...

From a visit to Iraq in 1980: c. Christine Osborne

THAI SPICY PRAWNS from the Travelling Hat Recipe Book

2011-12-07T09:26:00.000-08:00

Serves 2-3

16-18 medium-size green prawns, shelled but leaving tails

3 medium cubes garlic

1 tps sambal paste

Black pepper and salt to taste

Coconut milk

Lemon

Thai fish oil/Nom pla

½ tin of chopped tomatoes

Butter

Cup Basmati rice

Place the crushed garlic, pepper and sambal in a tablespoon of

butter and cook for one minute, shaking the skillet all the time.

Cool slightly, then throw in the prawns and cook quickly

until pink on both sides. Do not overcook them. Remove to cool.

To the skillet, add a tea-cup of coconut milk, a tea-cup of tinned tomatoes, a

splash of fish oil, and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Stir and heat, but do not boil.

Add the prawns and stir until hot enough to serve.

Serve with boiled rice.

Garnish: chopped coriander leaves.

Preview: for publication in 2012

2011-09-10T17:09:00.000-07:00

Travels with My Hat is the memoir of an Australian nurse who through skill and determination, switched careers to become an award-winning travel writer and photographer. It is a colourful record of her experiences defined by travel, undertaken on her own initiative, often without official help, and frequently against all odds. “We don’t know who you are,” she was told by the travel editor of the Daily Telegraph on arriving in London in 1974. “To get a name here, you need to write a book.” Which is exactly what she did. Publication of The Gulf States and Oman in 1977 brought a deluge of commissions on the Middle East. Books followed on Jordan and Pakistan. Christine was invited to visit Iraq by the Ba’athist regime of Saddam Hussein. Since visas were not issued to British journalists, she returned home and obtained clearance from the Iraqi Vice-Consul in – of all places –Bondi! Her journeys to Iraq, Ethiopia, Egypt, Yemen, Pakistan and Morocco are rounded off with letters to her mother who had never left Australia. We join Christine avoiding bandits in Yemen, diving in the Red Sea, and dining with Arab sheikhs in a racy account of forty years of travels when only one of a thousand and one problems, was being a young, western woman working in a man’s world. I have occasionally wished I were a boy, she writes in a chapter on Yemen. Not for the penis per se, but for the freedom it allows a man, since reality for a woman traveller is that her sex presents constraints…

Photos by Christine Osborne

www.copix.co.uk

http://travelswithmyhat.com

Experience, travel and

Travels with My Hat: from Chapter 3 Member of the Royal Press Corps

2011-08-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

...The Concorde bringing the Queen to Saudi Arabia touched down in Riyadh......Suddenly there was pandemonium. Everyone, including the State Guards, was running this way and that and after years of working alone, I forgot our strict orders not to leave the press group. Dashing outside the airport, I hailed a passing taxi.

‘Quick! The Nasirya Palace!’ I told the driver.

The Queen and the Duke were to stay here while the Britannia sailed to Dhahran, in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. A photo-call at the palace was not on our itinerary, but I hoped to sail in on a bit of bluff. Especially since I was an honorary man!

The Indian taxi-driver entered into the spirit of the moment as though his country was still under the British Raj. Speeding along the sandy highways and byways of Riyadh, he screeched to a halt in front of a mammoth building flying the Union Jack. And above it, fluttering in the desert wind, was Her Majesty’s personal standard.

‘This is the Nasirya Palace memsahib,’ he said, reversing the dented red Datsun in between gleaming black limousines.

Racing up the palace steps, I nodded at the Bedouin guards. Did they think I was an advance on the ladies-in-waiting? Without asking, they waved me inside a vast foyer lit with chandeliers the size of flying saucers.

It took courage to stand there surrounded by many princes of the estimated 7,000 members of the House of Saud: tall, erect men all wearing the bisht edged with gold, the mark of nobility. My eyes roamed over onyx tables and huge vases of flowers, but my flashlight sparked a buzz of conversation and feeling vulnerable, I wound my long black scarf around my face like one of their own women.

When a Rolls Royce drew up at the palace steps, attention shifted from me to the Queen. Trained not to flinch, Her Majesty passed me with only a brief look of surprise. Had I gone completely native? Trailing behind her, the Duchess and Lady Susan looked perturbed. Could Buckingham Palace have erred? Should they too be veiled. Dresses brushing the marble floor, they swept towards the majlis and before anyone could enquire why I didn’t follow them, I scampered back to the taxi.

‘It's the most exciting day of my life!’ said the old Indian. ‘Finally something to write home about from this god-forsaken country.'

Back at the Riyadh Inter-Continental, my luck was in when a helpful MEA pilot offered to take my films to London. My editor, Ita Buttrose, had been insistent we beat rival Woman's Day to press. Leaving Riyadh at midnight, the films were collected next morning from the Kensington Hilton in London and were Sydney-bound that afternoon.

A week later my article - CARRY ON DOWN THE GULF MA'AM - THE SHEIKHS LOVE YOU! captured attention 'Down Under’.

Image: Her Majesty is welcomed by King Khalid at Riyadh International Airport.

LONDON RIOTS: THE RISE OF THE DISAFFECTED AND JUST PLAIN BAD

2011-08-10T19:28:00.000-07:00

This blog is not an analysis of the British riots. It is a brief take on my own experience of living 35 years in a mixed society in South London.

In 1983, I moved from leafy Putney to Lambeth Borough to be nearer the West End. None of my friends lived there, however I was happy. My flat was across the Thames from the Tate Gallery, only three tube stops to Green Park, and I loved the river walk to the London Eye. But by the 1990s, I noticed a change.

Aggression was common. Searching for a hairdresser one day, I entered a shop to enquire the cost of a blow-dry. “Stick with your own kind,” said its black receptionist.

Spitting had increased. But while TB was up 40%, no one thought to educate refugees that the habit is potentially deadly. This not withstanding, the refugees -mainly Somali - were likeable people and a traveller to the Horn of Africa, I would often stop for a friendly chat with them.

By now I was noticing the increasing number of children of ethnic Caribbean origin. I learned that Jamaicans who father many kids are considered virile. They’re called “Baby Farmers” I was informed of someone who knew of a man who had sired thirteen children by seven different women.

I began to clock the youths who gathered outside the tube around five. They wore lots of bling and drove big BMWs, but pushing drugs was the only opportunity for such tragic kids, products of casual sex, often without a birth certificate, and with no educational qualifications.

Blame for current disorder is attributed to government cutbacks on public services, but the benefits system has been milked for years. In the Post Office, I was alone in buying stamps. One day a man in the queue boasted he sent his £300 allowance “right back to de folks in Kingston.”

By 2000 the rise of gang culture was evident. Carried by many, knives were used with impunity. Coming home at 4.30 one afternoon, a neighbour had her face slashed for her mobile phone.

Burly, unmuzzled dogs wearing spiked collars then became the gang weapon of choice. Half a dozen hoodies, parading such animals saw pedestrians scatter. En route to the dentist one morning, I inadvertently stepped in front of a big black man who picked me up by the elbows and lifted me out of his way.

The owners of small businesses along the high street - the Eritrean in the deli, Algerians in the Pound Store, Afghans in the hardware, Pakistanis repairing computers, expressed concern at the growing belligerence. We agreed the root problem was a hole where family life should offer support. But with no father and a rejection of rules for decent behavior laid down by a struggling single mother, many black youths had morphed into ferals existing outside normal community life.

By 2010-11, anger and resentment was simmering, a potent ingredient in the quickening decline being white " low life" telling their kids to “shut up ” and to "fuck off". “Fuck off” said a six year year old boy I saw stealing sweets in Sainsburys. On another occasion, I came upon two teens riding bicycles around the toiletries counter. Yes. Inside the supermarket!

Away at work, the professional minority where I lived missed such goings-on. Or if they knew, their lips were sealed in fear of being called a racist. But the Indians who owned the newsagent knew. They moved to America. The Cockney fishmonger sold up --- ‘ad enough -- he told me - and astonishingly, a mini-cab driver said he was returning to Nigeria (it was safer in Lagos!).

Finally I too decided to withdraw before the in-balance erupted into urban violence and it is with a special sadness I have watched this happen from far away Australia.

Thank you.

MOVE OVER MARRAKESH- Taroudant is the hot new property spot in Morocco

2011-07-03T05:01:00.000-07:00

On a recent visit to Morocco to write about real estate, I nearly ended up buying a house! It was a lovely old-style village house, completely renovated, with 3 BR, living, dining, patio-garden and swimming-pool. Price EUR120,000 (approx. £95,000).

The property was on sale in Taroudant, a quiet Berber market town in the Souss, the long valley extending inland from the Atlantic coast to the Anti-Atlas mountains.

While the popular resort of Agadir is only 40 miles distant, Taroudant has never really caught on with tourists. Why? Largely because the town itself is dry. There is no nightlife, and while its ramparts are among the best preserved in Morocco, there are no big monuments to catch the eye. Tourists either visit on a day-trip, or rush through it en route to the Sahara.

Taroudant is how I remember Marrakesh sans touristes in the sixties. The pace is slow, people shop in traditional souqs, and in spring the entire town is bathed in a scent of orange blossom from surrounding orchards.

“Taroudant is a magic place. Only 3-4 places in the world have the same effect,” says Sibyl de Beaufort, one of the first to buy and convert a house. In fact she bought two houses. The second was demolished to provide a swimming pool for Dar-el-Hana, her lovely riad tucked away in a corner of the medina.

Unlike Marrakesh whose medina numbers nearly 1000 foreign-owned riads, properties for sale in Taroudant are located in outlying douar (villages) whose owners are moving into modern flats. Rather like farmers do in rural France.

Leading local agent Immobiliere Taroudant has 300 such places on the market priced from from EUR42,000 (£37,000). Clearly they require renovation, but labour is cheap. A skilled artisan costs only £12 a day. A handyman less. And everything from tiles to taps (and alcohol!) is available in Agadir.

Until now buyers are mainly middle age, middle class French looking at retirement. Or as an investment.

The first five years are tax exempt after which tax is levied on the annual rental value. If sold within five years, capital gains tax is charged at 20% of profit and while values have slipped 20-30% in Marrakesh, 15% + is guaranteed in Taroudant. I heard of one man who bought a village house for EUR 15,000, did nothing to it, and sold it 8 months later for more than double this price.

One of the most ambitious projects was tackled by Marc Caburet, a former pastissier from Lausanne, who has transformed 4 acres of land into Dar Zitoune, a superb rural-style riad whose 12 de-luxe bungalows stand in gardens of fragrant plants, fruit and olive trees.

The bone-dry climate of the Souss is ideal for gardeners and arthritis sufferers will feel in heaven on earth. My advice is to leave your glucosamine behind and take advantage of current bargains. A select group of property owners includes Farah Diba, former Imperial Empress of Iran, who owns several houses in Taroudant and surroundings.

Images: Bread-seller in Taroudant medina by Mark Crame www.copix.co.uk

www.dar-el-hana.com

www.darzitoune.com

http://www.immo-taroudant.com/

1001 Inventions: Muslim contributions to Civilisation

2011-07-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

Visiting the Muslim Heritage Exhibition at the London Science Museum, I couldn't help wondering how ancient Arab scholars would view Muslims in the contemporary world.

Having said this, the discoveries and inventions of Arabs, as far back as the 7th century, remain largely unknown to the world at large. This is unfortunate since ancient Muslim genius is credited with paving the way for many important objects we use in everyday life. How about the toothbrush, for a start?

In 9th century Baghdad, the Beit al Hisma (House of Wisdom) created by the fifth Abbasid Caliph, Hārūn al-Rashīd, attracted the cream of Muslim intellect becoming a centre of learning and research without equal.

Working in 'The House,' Abū Yūsuf Yaqūb ibn Isāq al-Kindi, (considered the Father of Arab philosophy) translated works by Aristotle, as well as writing over 300 treatises, not only on philosophy, but mathematics, astronomy, meteorology and medicine.

Observatories were established; the oldest surviving astrolabe in the world was made in Baghdad, and the calculations of the 9th century mathematician Muhammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī, laid the foundation for future research into the development of the micro-chip.

The Abbasid caliphs themselves took a keen interest in science and the arts. Books acquired from libraries in Europe and the Middle East, were brought overland by camel for scholars to translate from the Latin, Greek, Persian, even Sanskrit texts.

Some of the many fascinating exhibits include surgical instruments, little different to those in use today; a copy of a map of the known world, conceived by the 12th century Andalusian cartographer al-Idrisi, and a model of the junk used by the Chinese Muslim explorer Zeng He,` a contemporary of Columbus, who visited 37 countries on his voyages of discovery.

Water wheels and windmills are rooted in ancient Muslim civilisations: clocks, cameras and conservatories were all conceived by Arabs. One Abbas ibn Firnas, a Berber living in 9th century Cordoba, was the first man to take flight using a pair of feathered wings.

These and other inventions can be seen in this unique display marred only by noisy and unruly visiting school groups.

Science Museum: London.

c.Christine Osborne.

DIVING AT DISHDABA

2011-05-26T02:44:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from Chapter 2 Red Sea Adventure

Travels with My Hat

...My childhood dream was no longer a dream. Or a deadline. Pulling on a mask and snorkel, I followed Morris out into the bay where I looked down on an underwater Eden.

Corals covered every inch of the reef. Some were soft pink and yellow ‘flower’ corals, feathery tentacles waving as they sifted in plankton from around their colony. Others were hard, limestone corals—mosaic, organ-pipe, brain and grass coral -- interspersed with lacy orange and red gorgonian sea fans. Still others like the fawn, blue-tipped staghorn coral were the size of small sedans.

Moreover, the abundance of fish was marvellous. Extraordinary! Now I understood why Jacques Cousteau was so enthusiastic about the Red Sea where divers and marine biologists have recorded some 1,200 species. In the first minutes, I identified white, black and bright yellow butterfly fish, red banner fish, goatfish, bream, a rainbow-coloured wrasse, a surgeonfish and a cheeky triggerfish - a species that knows no fear (one of these little fellows had nipped me while I was snorkelling off Rangiora, the great atoll in the Tuamotu Archipelago).

A wall of soft corals dropped 10m (32 ft) to a narrow plateau bristling with pink and mauve elk-horn coral where I spotted a red hawkfish resting in the branches of an orange sea fan, and a regal angel fish hovering near a cluster of lemon-coloured anemones. Green and mauve parrotfish were grinding the coral polyps with pharyngeal teeth and a school of eight squid, my favourite marine creature, jetted through the water like a team of Red Arrows.

When I swam after them, they flushed brown, then yellow and green, and the last animal squirted a puff of sepia-coloured ink. Coming up for air, I was brushed by a soft turquoise-trimmed nudi-branch which Egyptians know as a badia for its undulating movements which resemble those of a belly dancer.

Morris and the other boys managed to spear plenty of fish, but there was no wood to build a fire so we could cook them. Mas’udi writes of the Red Sea coast as being barren more than a thousand years ago, so unlike in the Pacific Ocean, there was no driftwood washed up on the tide-line. Ruth and I each had a tin of Chinese corned beef and a packet of biscuits brought from Hurghada, but they would not stretch far when shared between six of us. The boys had brought nothing at all...

Underwater images by Erik Bjurstrom

Photo Christine Osborne, Dishdaba 1964

LOST INNOCENCE OF ABBOTTABAD

2011-05-16T07:35:00.000-07:00

It is inconceivable that Osama bin Laden lived in a compound in Abbottabad without knowledge of the ISI - the Pakistan intelligence agency. Or was OBL so clever as to figure that no one would suspect him of hiding in a town, so close to Islamabad, having the biggest presence of active, and retired, military personnel in the country. Either way, Pakistanis are justified in feeling humiliated, deceived and demoralised.

It is unfortunate that Abbottabad, a leafy garrison town founded by one Major John Abbott in 1847, is now associated with the name Bin Laden.

I visited it when I was writing a book on Pakistan. A friend in Rawalpindi had an auntie who lived there in a bungalow surrounded by climbing roses and we drove up for afternoon tea. Begum Viqar Noon, the late chairman of the Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation, also had a residence in Abbottabad and were she alive today, I'm sure that she would be distressed to know of its link with the perpetrator of 9/11.

On a recent flight to Australia, a young Pakistani woman in full hijab seated next to me told me her father was a retired Major-general and the family home was in Abbottabad. ‘You must visit us when next you come to Pakistan,' she said.

'I would love to,' I told her - Abbottabad is one of my favourite places in Pakistan, but before we could exchange addresses, we lost each other in the chaotic baggage reclaim area at Sydney airport.

Abbottabad of course has lost its innocence and it is to be hoped that the Bin Laden house will be demolished leaving nothing for the curious to see.

WAR PHOTOGRAPHY: FINE LINE BETWEEN REPORTAGE AND DEATH

2011-04-21T16:29:00.000-07:00

YOU TUBE has removed the video of war photographer Tim Hetherington being laid out by staff at the Misrata Hospital in Libya.

The man who posted the video which also contained images of Getty photographer Chris Hondros, uploaded it in good faith, and only after much deliberation. The decision to do so took moral courage and carried a warning that it contained graphic images. Therefore, and as always, it was a personal decision whether one looked at it or not.

I saw the video before You Tube decided it was unsuitable for public viewing, a decision with which I disagree.

The images of the dead Hetherington were a closure. If you’ve ever lost someone as I have, in curious circumstances and with no corpse, there is no closure on his life. The doctors handled Tim gently and if any of his family and friends managed to see the video, they would certainly have been upset. But it was an end.

My problem with You Tube in this case, is that they allow graphic footage of wounded and dead Afghans, Africans - you name them - to be displayed, but censor respectful photos of a famous photo-journalist killed in action.

I never met Tim, but I admired his skill as a photographer and in particular his evident concern for the unfortunates displaced by warfare. I also believe he wouldn’t have minded being photographed as a dead man. He was after all, a film-maker.

May you rest in peace Tim and thank you for the many times you risked your life to depict people caught in conflict.

Tim Hetherington, 40 and Chris Hondros 41, were killed on 20 April in the battle for Misrata.

Images: Chris Hondros, Tim Hetherington, photo Chris Hondros/Getty

WHERE IS EMAN AL-OBEIDI?

2011-03-26T23:48:00.000-07:00

While it is good to see Arab women protesting alongside male demonstrators in the Arab uprisings, it is appalling to learn how at the first opportunity, many men turn to rape.

The shocking attack on the CBS journalist in Cairo, and now this terrible video of the poor Libyan woman crying out for help to the international media, is a violent and graphic reminder that women face specific and harrowing abuse in times of war and conflict.

Someone has left a post on Twitter re Eman al-Obeidi, the woman beaten and raped by Gaddafi lackeys in Libya ---- what can we do, we must do something, she tweets. The terrible thing is we can’t. And as I write this blog, she is incarcerated, somewhere unknown, certainly being tortured, even being raped again, for boldly, desperately, speaking out.

On the outside, looking in, we can only pass on the message and support by whatever means, the brave women who dare to speak up. Women like Marvi Sirmed in Lahore, ‘Zeinobia’ in Cairo and Emma Al Nafjan in Riyadh, to name just three of many courageous female bloggers putting their freedom at risk for daring to write of unacceptable situations in their respective countries. .

And neither let us forget the thousands of African women in Rwanda, Congo and Darfur who have been gang-raped by soldiers. Pray for women at risk everywhere in this violent world and wish the bastards who commit such atrocities may rot in hell.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26vYN_kxK3Y&feature=share

http://feb17.info/general/video-eman-el-obeidis-cousin-speaks-out-translated/

EDIBLE BUSH TOURS IN AUSTRALIA'S RED HOT CENTRE

2011-03-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

Witchetty grubs were on the breakfast menu at Kings Canyon, a rugged gash in the George Gill ranges near Alice Springs, in central Australia. It was not my ideal way to start the day, but I managed to swallow one by pretending it was scrambled egg.

Jacinta, my aboriginal guide, next offered me a green plum (reputed to be the world's richest source of vitamin C) and as we continued our morning walk, she plucked other edibles in what appeared to be inhospitable bush. She found desert raisins and rock figs and pointed out the tracks in a dry creek bed made by a goanna, another aboriginal delicacy. Then suddenly she bent down and scrabbled in the sand.

‘Charlie Quink-Quink,’ she showed me a tiny termite in her hand. 'We put him on our breasts to make them bigger.' Was it ground into a paste like a quandong kernel, or crushed and painted on like milkwood, I wanted to know? ‘He bites your nipple and makes it grow,’ she giggled.

The Northern Territory Conservation Commission grades Outback walks as easy (Emu), moderate (Sand Goanna) and tough (Rock Wallaby).

The walk up Kings Canyon, a height of nearly a thousand feet was all Rock Wallaby, I decided on the hot climb, but my efforts were rewarded on reaching the top to find a great view and an oasis of exotic plants, including pre-historic cycad palms. Two backpackers who had also made it to the canyon rim had stripped off and lay stark naked beside a rock pool.

Sneaking away, I missed the track and spent a frightening hour walking round in circles. It’s easy to become lost in the Outback. Rangers advise you carry a litre of water to drink for every hour you walk, and to leave a note on the car windscreen saying where you’ve gone.

It is three hour’s drive from Kings Canyon to Uluru, the huge monolith which sits on the horizon like a giant cow pat. Climbing it is an equal challenge, but its Anangu custodians would prefer you didn‘t. More than 600 millions years old, it is a sacred site and every nook and cranny has a significance in their Dreamtime.

I felt to climb the rock would be like wearing shoes inside a mosque. But another reason was the gusts of hot wind. As I stood at the base, a variety of headgear came whizzing down from tourists climbing above me: Terry-towelling hats and Akubras landed in the bushes. Even a white canvas hat embroidered Wimbledon 2010 floated down like a lob by Venus Williams.

Sightseeing alternatives to scaling Uluru include peddling slowly round it on a bicycle, flying across it by light aircraft, or drifting over it in a hot air balloon. There are also guided walks lead by softly spoken aboriginal guides who point out bush edibles such as those I sampled at Kings Canyon.

The best time to visit Central Australia is between April and September which corresponds with the local winter. $25 entrance fee to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. Free access to Kings Canyon.

Images from www.copix.co.uk

BULLFIGHTING: OMANI STYLE

2011-01-14T11:41:00.000-08:00

Camel racing, yes. Bullfighting, no! The sight of two massive animals locking horns is one not associated with the Arab world, yet in Oman, the rugged sultanate on the Arabian Sea, bullfighting is a popular spectator sport.

It seems impossible that Omani-style bullfights are a Portuguese hand-me-down, yet ancient Portuguese mariners used Oman, and its northern enclave of Musandam, as a port call on voyages of discovery to India and beyond.

As in Portugal, local bullfighting is bloodless, a contest between two animals of Brahmin blood who test their stamina against each other. A champion bull can command a price of $5000 and more.

The young bulls are reared on a nutritious diet especially high in grains, dates and dried sardines. They are massaged daily and taken on long runs along the beaches of the Batinah Coast of Oman, roughly an hour's drive north of capital, Muscat. In fact pampered like prize boxers, they live the life of Reilly.

When the animals reach about two years old, they are sent to the ‘ring’, an open field surrounded by Japanese made pick-up trucks and four-wheel drives. As many as twenty bulls may participate in a contest, the prospect of driving a ton of snorting beef across several hundred kilometres of desert being no deterrent to their proud owners.

After considerable discussion, a referee selects a pair of animals based on height and weight, a key weapon being the horns which are trained to grow curved to obtain a better grip on the opponent. Contest rules are simple: may the strongest bull win.

Each animal is led out by its owner holding the end of a rope until snorting and pawing the ground, the bulls charge. Whack! the sounds of their horns echoes around the field as spectators, exclusively male, cheer on their favourite.

When one bull bites the dust, the other is declared the victor and tripping over their long pink robes, the owners run after them to pick up the rope which is secured around a foreleg. Occasionally a bull is too quick, and charging through the crowd, he runs off with everyone in pursuit.

Sharia, or Muslim law forbids any kind of wager, so no money changes hands everyone being simply happy to enjoy a jolly day out. As for the bulls, rarely injured, some may fight a hundred times before eventually dying of old age.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

NO MEN ALLOWED: IN THE EXOTIC WOMEN-ONLY SOUQ IN IBRA

2010-11-13T01:46:00.000-08:00

The desert town of Ibra is a fairly ordinary place of some 35,000 people, located 140 kms inland from Muscat, the capital of Oman. For six days of the week there is no apparent reason to stop there but on Wednesday, Ibra bursts out of its rough chrysalis to become one of the most colourful souqs in Arabia - transformed by hundreds of women swirling about like butterflies in a feeding frenzy.

Wednesday is women-only market day for Bedouin from the surrounding Sharqiya Sands. A dusty square, normally filled with camels, goats and desert bric-a-brac becomes a 'Designer`s Guild of the Desert` selling soft furnishings for the home or tent, together with clothing, textiles, make-up and jewellery for brides-to-be.

Swathed in exotic dresses, women rummage through rolls of shimmering silks, gold and silver brocades and cotton textiles patterned with cabbalistic symbols. Lengths and prices are loudly disputed before a deal is struck and the material is cut using a large pair of scissors passed among the traders who are also women since men are strictly forbidden to even set a toe in the souq.

In another area sheltered from the hammering sun by striped parasols, other women sell home-grown produce - dates, goat`s milk, cheese and honey from Nizwa oasis, a further hour`s drive inland.

Most of the women are dropped off by their husbands driving Toyota pick-ups. Others living in the sands may walk for hours to reach Ibra on a Wednesday.

A young Bedouin girl, her face hidden by a shiny black mask, told me she walked 15 km to the market, but curiously she had never seen the sea, only 100 km east of Ibra..

I was heading for the coast to check a new tourism complex and asked would she like to come? She could have a paddle in the Arabian Sea and be back in Ibra the same afternoon. No, she giggled: she had to get home to prepare her brother`s lunch.

Since as long as anyone can remember, men have not been allowed to trade in Ibra on a Wednesday. But come Thursday, it`s back to men again, making the Women`s Market seem like a colourful invention.

Notes for visitors: Ibra is the inland gateway to the Sharqiya Province of Oman, located on an excellent road to Nizwa and al-Ashkarah. The Wahiba Sand sea, originally named for the al-Wahiba tribe, is now known as the Sharqiya Sands. Photographing the Women`s Market in Ibra is strictly forbidden: how I got these images is my own secret.

www.copix.co.uk

FORGET, FORGET THE 5th November - gunpowder, treason and rot

2010-11-08T08:42:00.000-08:00

Not so long ago a vocal non-Christian minority in the United Kingdom called for Christmas to be stopped. Already the Christian morning assembly has been dropped in many schools and the traditional Nativity Play is no longer staged where there is a large, multi-ethnic attendance.

All of this is ridiculous kowtowing by the Christian host nation, but as I lay awake on 5th November, I couldn’t help but wonder about the sanity of preserving the traditional British Bonfire Night.

Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night, the annual celebration held on 5th November in U.K. and many Commonwealth countries, commemorates the failed effort of Guido Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament, an early terrorist attempt on 5th November 1605, when an estimated 82 million fireworks - worth some £250 million to retailers - goes up in smoke. Literally.

As exploding bungers rattled my bedroom windows, I wondered about its effect on our large migrant population who have fled conflict in their homelands. At one point, the noise resembled bomb blasts and any children, old enough to remember warfare in countries such as Somalia, Eritrea and Iraq, must have been utterly terrified.

Of course we must retain our Christian celebrations, but the government should ban this wasteful tradition which also terrifies pets and sees some thousands of people -mainly under-16s - treated for firework injuries. This year some fool also lobbed fireworks into an electrical fuse-box which blacked out 109 homes in rural Berkshire, thank you very much.

Who agrees? Lets hear your comments.

FROM MUM IN THE GARDEN TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN

2010-10-31T06:32:00.000-07:00

People often ask how I started out taking pictures. Well, it was with a Kodak Box Brownie at the age of eight when I took a photo of my mother and the family spaniel - captioned 'Mum and Betsy in the Garden.’

From this inauspicious start, I became keen on photography spending hours developing pictures in the blacked-out kitchen and while ultimately my most enthusiastic supporter, there were occasions when Mum grew cross.

‘You never clean up properly Chris,’ was a frequent comment.

My first picture of Djibouti - sold with a story to the Sydney Morning Herald in 1965 -started my career as a travel writer and photographer specialising in the Muslim world.

The Queen received a copy of my first book - The Gulf States and Oman as background reading on the royal visit to Arabia in 1979.

I was also the only woman photographer on the 3 week tour which was action packed - just as Concorde carrying Her Majesty approached Kuwait, my driver went off with my cameras in his car. Fortunately I retrieved them in time, but ever since I’ve never let them out of my sight, turning down many courteous offers to carry my heavy camera bag.

I’ve always specialised in developing countries - mostly in Africa, South Asia and the Arab Gulf where I hope my record of traditional life may have value for future generations.

Gauging your subject's sensitivity is essential to getting a good picture and to protect your equipment. A slight hand movement, or someone carefully putting down their load of melons often means a quick decision on whether to shoot. Or not.

Fortunately there have been few occasions on my travels when someone has become really angry. But occasionally it was touch and go.

Commissioned to photograph a tribal migration in Baluchistan, I stood my ground as the leader walked over waving his rifle. As he got near I grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously but when he uttered, it was not abuse: he wanted a cigarette (I gave him the packet).

One means of acquiring a subject is to give away small items to earn goodwill, or to distract attention. I always carry coins, sweets and balloons which I blow up for nuisance children. Recently I gave one to a youth in Zanzibar who taking it and looking me straight in the eye, asked in fluent English, was it a condom?

I`ve had many different cameras since the original Brownie. Several ‘old mates’ have bitten the dust - a pair of Pentaxes stolen from my hotel room in Palm Springs, another taken at knife point in The Gambia, a Canon smashed when I fell in Fujairah.

Although I endeavour to work unobtrusively, being tall and fair and feminine has not always helped. Frustrated with a crowd of curious men in Jacobabad in Pakistan, I devised the idea of drawing a line in the dust and telling them to stand behind it which they obediently did!

But one of the strangest encounters occurred on top of the National Museum in Sana’a.

I’d climbed up to take the view when a Yemeni holding a Polaroid asked could he take my picture and I noticed his hands were shaking so he couldn't hold it steady.

‘He is an escaped political prisoner and this is his only way of earning a little money. Would you pose for him?’ said my guide.

And as one who has taken thousands of pictures, I naturally agreed.

The Queen with Sheikh Isa in Bahrain, 1979.

Powindah migration through the Bolan Pass, 1981

A market in Tangiers, 1964

www.copix.co.uk

AFFORDABLE ART FAIR WITH THAT HAPPY FACTOR

2010-10-22T06:12:00.000-07:00

What a pleasure to wander through the Affordable Art Fair in Battersea Park after visiting the execrable displays competing for the Turner Prize, earlier in the week. Currently showing until 24th October, the AAF covers what most people define as ‘real art’ - painting, sculpting, print-making and photography.

More than 100 galleries are gathered together under one roof where you can stroll in a simple, well-lit and relaxed environment. Absent is the snobbishness often pervading West End galleries. Here you can chat to the artist about his or her work. There are also hands-on workshops covering everything from print-making, drawing and sculpture to abstract painting.

At previous fairs, I've felt that abstract painting was not well represented so it is good to see it catching up to the ‘farmyard art’ so popular with many British artists. There are still plenty of horses, cows and colourful gardens, but the ratio is now roughly 50-50 with many highly original displays to ponder over.

It is probably invidious to select anything from the level playing field, but I especially liked Trevor Price’s flesh-toned octopus-like couples, Susan Foord’s luminous abstracts and the innovative collages combining nature and antique curiosities called 'Still Remains' exhibited by the Columbia Road Gallery on Stand K8.

The Affordable Art Fair leaves you with that ‘feel good’ factor. And who knows you may even find that statement piece for your flat. Works are priced between £50 and £3000, the exhibition is open from 11am-6pm. Ticket prices from £10-20, children under 16 are free.

AAFs are also held in Amsterdam, New York, Brussels, Sydney and Melbourne with a Singapore launch in November and Milan in February 2011.

www.trevorprice.co.uk

www.affordableartfair.com

MY BIRTHDAY FROM HELL

2010-10-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

A young travel journalist was recently whining on his blog of how lonely he expected to be on a three week trip to America. In response, I felt like saying you don’t take your best pal to work do you? So if travel writing is your chosen metier, please fasten your safety belt and stop complaining.

In fact there is a huge gulf between travel writing and travel journalism. The former sees you away - often for months at a time - in an alien society with no infrastructure other than your wits. The reverse is a quick press-trip with colleagues to Majorca, or wherever, when you’ve barely closed the door and you’re back again.

Real travel writing by its nature, is a solitary occupation as the authors of great narratives will confirm. Missing home and dining alone are inevitable downsides and while grateful for a capacity to be alone, I find that spending your birthday without a companion exacerbates the sense of social isolation.

In a lifetime of travel writing I`ve awakened on 17th October in Sydney, London, Paris, Rome, Amsterdam, Nairobi, Dublin, Tahiti, New York, Marrakesh, Muscat, Provincetown and Algiers. I`ve also seen out three birthdays in Pakistan: my 39th up the Khyber, my 40th in Islamabad and my 41st in Sukkur, an historic town on the river Indus in Sindh.

Knowing I’d be alone in Sukkur, I was determined not to let it get me down. I bought a big bag of sweets for local children that morning and normally skipping lunch, I opted to celebrate with a meal - albeit it in my room as it was Ramadan.

I’d ordered catfish masala, but since my air conditioning wasn’t working and the electric fan had stopped, I called reception to send up an electrician.

In a few moments a sharp knock heralded a short man in navy overalls holding a giant screw-driver. ‘Electric,’ he said and coming in, he switched the fan on, then off, spun the blades (its cage was missing) announced ‘fan heat,’ and picking it up out he marched out again.

A second knock had signalled a waiter with my lunch and taking the tray, I placed it carefully on the bed and pulled up a chair, but before I could take a mouthful, there was another rap on the door. No surprise that it was the electrician.

This time he kicked off his sandals and stepping over the tray, he stood on my pillow and placing a foot against the bed-head, he yanked the air conditioner off the wall, splitting its timber frame and showering my lunch with dust balls.

‘Check,’ he said and taking it into his arms, he had disappeared down the corridor.

Moments later he was back dragging the fan through the door which I had left ajar in anticipation.

‘Wire,’ he declared and kneeling down, he plunged his giant screw-driver into the wall socket.

‘Don't do that!’ I shouted, picturing an incinerated corpse.

‘Problem fix,’ he said and flicking a switch, the fan had started up like a turbo-jet, blowing my birthday curry all over the bedspread.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

My official press pass to visit Zambia in 1994.

Breakfast with Bedouin while researching my first book The Gulf States and Oman (1978).

With houseboat children on the Indus river in Sukkur on 17th October 1981.

17th OCTOBER IS INTERNATIONAL DAY FOR THE ERADICATION OF POVERTY

DELICIOUS CASSOULET FROM THE OSBORNE KITCHEN

2010-09-25T09:28:00.000-07:00

PORK AND BEAN CASSOULET: serves 2

500 grm roughly chopped shoulder of pork

1 large onion sliced

3 large cloves garlic

1 green chilli chopped

I 300 grm tin chopped tomatoes

2 medium chorizo sausages

1 500 grm tin white flageolet beans

Cup of chicken stock/other

I tbsp hot Cajun sauce

Add cooking oil to a pan and gently colour the garlic, onion, chilli with the addition of a good pinch of allspice and cumin.

Remove and add the pork pieces, tossing in the hot oil until juices are sealed. Remove.

In an earthenware casserole, tip the pre-cooked flageolet beans, the skinned and chopped chorizos and the pork. Add the tomatoes and juice, the stock, several slurps of Cajun sauce and a squeeze of fresh lemon-juice.

Cook on a medium heat for 2 hours, stirring occasionally.

Serve with khubz Arab bread, or crusty baguette for dipping in the sauce, and a green salad of lettuce, cucumber, pre-cooked and chopped string beans and slices of avocado.

SHE BUYS SEA-SHELLS ON THE SEA SHORE...

2010-09-25T08:08:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up in Australia, we caught our own bait for fishing.

Pippi-shells wiggled out of the beach, worms dug up from the mud, prawns drifting down the channel on the night tide. Dad used to shine a torch on the water and I would scoop them into a net. There used to be quite a few when I was eight. Less when I was twelve. And by the time I was a teenager, there were none at all.

This was our small contribution to the decimation of local sea-life. We didn’t know the prawns were drifting in to breed on the sand banks of Lake Macquarie where we lived, 90 miles north of Sydney.

Older and now well travelled, I’ve seen humans catching marine life-be it prawns, squid, sharks or tuna - all over the world. But what about the shells. Oh the shells!

Lined up on waterfront stalls -----helmet shells in Zanzibar, trochus shells in Tahiti, nautilus in Indonesia, turtle-shell jewellery in Sri Lanka, puffer-fish lamps in New Caledonia, corals in Sinai, cowries in Fiji, dried sea-horses in the Philippines.

The rape of the ocean’s marine life is out of control. The oil-leak in the Gulf of Mexico may kill a few hundred turtles, but it is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the numbers of creatures being harvested in developing countries to satisfy Asian peccadilloes and tourist greed.

Tourist buying a shell from beach boys on Bali.

Woman tries on a turtle-shell bracelet in Seychelles.

Shells on a waterfront stall in Zanzibar

www.copix.co.uk

DATES ARE THE FERTILIZERS OF OUR KNEES...runs an old Arab saying

2010-09-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

The date palm is considered to be the world's oldest tree cultivated by man. Date-farming in mentioned on Mesopotamian clay tablets from 3,000 BC while the Holy Qur'an has a reference to Mary sustaining herself on dates while birthing Jesus.

Now served on Arab airline menus, dates were once the basic diet for Bedouin living in the Middle East and North Africa. Their sticky golden fruit, a rich source of carbohydrate, fibre and minerals, was the eaten by both men and animals.

But while its fruit was their staple diet, the date palm had a myriad uses for the hardy nomads who always left one family member in charge of the trees during their annual migration.

The massive trunk, split in two and laid end to end, became an effective canal for conveying water to the oasis while the palm fronds, staked out in the sand, became an enclosure for domestic stock and before oil brought undreamt of riches, Bedouin of the Arab Gulf states lived in barastis - huts made from woven palm branches. Arabian Sea fishermen used a shasha canoe, likewise made of lashed date palm fronds.

Felling a date palm remains almost sacred act with nothing wasted when it crashes to earth.

Raked out and combed, the fibrous heart is made into brooms and woven into ropes, stuffing for cushions, food and prayer mats. The wood chips are gathered for use as fuel; even the stones are saved and crushed for animal fodder ---in Arabian Sands the great explorer Wilfred Thesiger writes how he once carelessly threw a date-stone into his camp-fire and his Bedouin guide leaned over and picked it out.

While wealthy Bedouin now drive Land Cruisers and communicate on mobile phones, the date palm remains deeply rooted in social customs among rural families. In the interior of Oman palms continue to count as bridal dowry and here, as well as in the Maghreb, a man's wealth is still judged on the number of his trees.

While most trees cannot survive in the desert, liking sandy soil and able to endure temperatures of 50c, sees the date palm flourish with a healthy tree capable of producing an annual crop of up to 90 kilos. Some of the world's biggest date plantations line the Shatt al Arab waterway in southern Iraq, whose wall-to-wall palms were remarked on by Ibn Battuta on in 1327:

'……… we travelled on waterways through an uninterrupted garden of …..overshadowing palm groves to the right and left, with traders sitting in the shade of the trees, selling bread, fish, dates, milk and fruit.'

Date palms are dioecious meaning they have male and female organs borne on separate individuals of the same species - male palms produce pollen and female palms bear the fruit. Thousands of years ago natural pollination was carried out by the wind, birds and insects, but in commercial cultivation, each palm is fertilised by hand by an agile pollinator.

Among scores of different types of dates, the rich, golden, almost translucent variety known as deglat al nour is generally considered to be the ‘Queen of Dates’. The odd thing is that while Arabs enjoy dates throughout the year, in western societies they generally only appear at Christmas.

A Tunisian date-farmer checks his crop in Nefta.

Dates and coffee are served in Arab society.

A pollinator climbs a date-palm in Morocco.

Source: www.copix.co.uk