All of an out of the blue, Fatima pulled at my shirt. At first I thought she was trying to attract my attention, then I realised she was pulling it to see if I had anything on underneath. I was glad I'd put on a T-shirt under the long-sleeved shirt: modesty itself. Umm Tahir smirked at me and their mother told Fatima off - but she didn't seem much chastened. When Alia and I had had the knicker show, it just made me laugh. This made me furious. And I was furious for not having any words to express my fury. I got up, nodded politely at the old woman and walked out.
I didn't go far: just round to
the back of the tent, where dried blood was baking into the sand and bits
of sheep skin swarmed with flies. I was sick of sitting in the tent anyway,
all the sun and fresh air going to waste in claustrophobic pettiness. I
stood and watched the calming desert. There was another tent out there,
could have been half a mile away. It had camels tethered near it; not such
a common sight in the Eastern Desert. Rathwan said four-wheel drives were
more practical; camels were slower and far more wayward. Some Bedouin liked
to have a few around, like prize pets, symbols of the spirit of a way of
life surviving even though a Toyota and a Merc were parked alongside them.
Across the distance, one of the camels set up their terrible, off-key roaring.
I wished I'd been able to produce a sound like that and done it loud in
Fatima's face.
