shukraan

We five have arranged ourselves in the usual

position: facing the sea; chairs in a row;

striped windbreak stretched out behind us;

multi-coloured umbrella above the

humble paterfamilias. This

is our favourite beach, Traeth Benllech:

with views of the remains of a hillfort

on a distant promontory; of the Great Orme –

shaped like the dragon’s head the Norse sailors saw –

a far peninsula on the mainland;

of container ships on the horizon

waiting for low tide to dock in Liverpool;

of the sea itself here at low water –

soft sibilants a fair walk away.

 

On the sands fifteen yards in front of us

and slightly to our left three Muslim women,

in hijabs and embroidered abayas,

with two small children, set up their camp.

Their picnic table is substantial,

and adorned with an elegant coffee pot.

Their umbrella is multi-coloured

like ours. They push its spike manually

into the sand. I fear the worst. They sit,

and call the children to the picnic.

The prevailing gentle south westerly

upends the brolly. They rise, and again

push the spike down as far as they can.

The wind fills the umbrella like a sail.

 

“Those three ladies need assistance,” I say.

One of our party, a stalwart in a storm,

rises, and approaches the group, our mallet

held unthreateningly at his side.

We watch the dumb-show of smiles and gestures.

He hammers the bottom firmly in,

and places the top half at an angle.

We watch the gestures and the smiles. He returns.

We applaud. Almost immediately

one of the women approaches smiling

and carrying a small metal tray.

“They are lukmat,” she explains, extending

the tray of small pastries. “Morsels in English.

They have been fried and then covered in

fig sauce. Please take as many as you want”.

And we do. “It is a Middle East custom.

I am from Yemen. My friends” – she gestures

with her head – “are from Saudi Arabia

and Syria”. I manage, “Shukraan”,

and she asks if I speak Arabic, and I laugh

deprecatingly. One her friends arrives

with the coffee pot and five small paper cups.

“I am from Saudi Arabia,” she says,

smilingly. “This is Arabic coffee.

There is no sugar” – and she gives each of us

a cup and pours. We thank her, and sip.

The coffee’s bitterness has been tempered

by cardamom, that sweetens the breath.

 

They leave before us. There are waves and smiles.

Later, as we drive up the steep hill home,

I recall that I know another word of

Arabic – yamal, hope.