When in Arabia…

When I was in Arabia (er, actually, Dubai) I danced with a belly-dancer. I was nowhere near as limber or flexible as she was (nor as scantily clad) but it was a lot of fun nevertheless.

Later on, whilst meandering through the twisty alleys of the souq in Dubai with X, I saw numerous belly dancing outfits fluttering in the breeze. Of course I became fixated with purchasing one.

Hot pink or sapphire blue or apple green with red? Bells tinkled and sequins sparkled…

We found a merchant whose goods looked better quality that most, and I happily rummaged through the vast array of silken garments. Short or long, pants or skirt? Hot pink or sapphire blue or apple green with red? Bells tinkled and sequins sparkled; the merchant’s eyes twinkled (with dollar signs) as he hastened to find a colour that would please me.

At first I hankered for something bright and gaudy like the belly dancer’s. The merchant suggested X take a photo of me modelling one such confection so I could see what I look like. I quickly decided it was too gaudy.

Before I could settle on the black silk embroidered with silver beads and sequins, X firmly directed me out the door to ‘confer’ about the price, as he informed the merchant. I should have been accustomed to X’s flair for the dramatic. “But I want it!” I exclaimed to X as I was bullied up the alleyway. “Yes, yes,” he replied, “but we’re bringing the price down… Alright, we can go back now.”

And sure enough, when we returned the price was suddenly right.

O (wo)man!

Last year in Oman, I wandered through Muttrah Souq with X. He had a specific objective: to buy an Omani man’s traditional robe and embroidered cap. In our search for authentic clothing, we were forced deeper and deeper into the maze, leaving the glamorous shops and most of the tourists far behind.

At last we found a merchant selling goods that pleased X, after he convinced them that he wanted a dishdasha that any Omani man would wear. He settled on basic pale blue with pinstripes, but no-one could lay their hands on a kummah that fit his head, until a passer-by (getting into the spirit of the thing) declared his uncle, or possibly brother, had just the thing. He sped off and before long returned with a length of folded fabric. X was directed to sit on a camping stool whilst a cluster of Omanis surrounded him and correctly wrapped the muzzhar, or turban, around X’s head.

Eventually they all glanced at me, wondering which costume I would like to choose. It hadn’t yet occurred to me to purchase one but suddenly it seemed imperative.

Omani women’s clothing is more colourful than their Gulf neighbours’, but I didn’t want anything gaudy. Several garments were displayed to me before I found one that satisfied me.

So here I am in my Muscat-style thawb, (the women’s version of a dishdasha) suitably embellished with gold threads and pink tilli (locally made braid). Of course I should be wearing my pretty green pashmina to cover my head – not around my neck as directed – and they neglected to sell me the necessary pair of pantaloons. That was probably just as well, as between us, X and I only just managed to scrape together enough Omani rials and UAE dirhams to pay for my expensive pashmina and robe.

My silver dangly earrings are from the same souq, but my gorgeous Arabian slippers are from Dubai.

Where to next?

Dreaming in Chinoiserie

I have always admired Oriental embroidery. I find it so lush and decorative; it always makes me think of the decadence of nineteenth century decorative arts, when a craze for Orientalism swept Europe.

In the past I have owned a gorgeous silk kimono – I donated it to the Salvation Army, alas. Although I have visited Hong Kong and China’s mainland twice, on neither occasion was there time to have a silk robe made to measure, and I certainly did not see any ready-made that came anywhere near to fulfilling my fantasies. So on my recent trip to Vietnam (famed for its tailors), I determined that I would have one made.

On my first night in Saigon I was browsing in a tailor’s chosen at random, and came across some sumptuous brocades that made my heart go pitter-pat. What astonishing colour and detail! Fat roses burst into bloom and rioted in glorious richness all over heavy swathes of silk. And over the flowers were birds of paradise with wings spread, picked out delicately in pale gold – like line drawings over watercolour. I dithered over the various colourways, but in the end could not but choose my favourite turquoise. The brocade was so special that I had to put down a larger deposit than was usual so the tailor could purchase it.

…over the flowers were birds of paradise with wings spread, picked out delicately in pale gold…

We lingered over the plain silks, trying to choose the best colour for the lining. In the end I went with a bright lime, (the exact shade of gold I wanted was not to be had), although afterwards I wished I had gone for the paler yellow. By the time I reached this conclusion, I was floating down the Mekong and it was too late to change my mind.

Length of the skirts and sleeves were discussed in detail, and then the tailor briskly measured me up; took a deposit and told me to return in three days. Perfect. While my brocade was being cut up and my kimono assembled, I would be discovering the delights of the Mekong Delta.

Despite the three-quarter sleeves, my kimono is warm enough for the deep-freeze of a Melbourne winter… I just need some glamorous pyjamas to match.

The backdrop is of the Kowloon Walled City Gardens.