What happened to the Arabian Nights?

A journey into the Arabic Peninsula

As a child, my shelves were filled with storybooks. I think first of the Brothers Grimm, of course, but also of The Arabian Nights, that vivid tapestry of Arab, Persian, and Middle Eastern tales. These stories, woven over the centuries since the Middle Ages, have captivated the world ever since Antoine Galland’s first translation in the 18th century. Though the collection contains over two hundred stories, it is the familiar names—Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin, the Seven Voyages of Sinbad—that continue to stir our imaginations.

This collection has, in a way, shaped the Western perception of the “Mystical Orient”, and though the original stories offer a rich and nuanced representation of Middle Eastern folklore, society and values, their many translations and interpretations, particularly in the West, have often exoticized and distorted the cultural richness of the stories, perpetuating Orientalism and many stereotypes of Middle Eastern culture.

Today, if you set out from Muscat along the road to the Wahiba Sands —just an hour's drive from the Omani capital— you can treat yourself to an experience worthy of the most beautiful tales. Warm, luxurious tents, thickly embroidered carpets, gilded cushions, a tea set sitting on a polished wooden table. Here, comfortably sheltered from the sweltering heat, you might fancy yourself a prince or princess from a folklore you don't really know or understand. The next day, if you wish, you will complete this interlude with a camel ride. For this enchanting experience, you'll part with €150 to €200 per night, excluding the various activities on offer. But at that price, you will certainly be offered some mint tea.

But does the average traveler, attracted by these beautiful scenes, truly wish to confront deeper realities? To learn that camel riding was not some leisurely diversion but an essential mode of survival? That the Bedouins owned next to nothing, living a harsh and austere existence? While the Arabian Peninsula has known its share of kings, princes and wealth, the day-to-day lives of most of its people were drastically different.

Yet, isn't the colourful world of the Arabian Nights the perfect sales pitch for the travel agencies thriving in the region? Who, after all, would be drawn to a land described merely as an endless stretch of emptiness, sand and rocks, to be crossed under an unforgiving sun? If no one sold us the dream of a comfortable and magical escape, would anyone still travel? Each time we embark on a journey, we must confront a fundamental question: What kind of reality are we seeking? Is it the one that perpetuates our fantasies, the well-worn images we've inherited? Is it the reality preserved in history books, or the one we encounter in candid observation, unfolding around us?

Last March, almost on a whim, I set out for Oman, venturing toward the vast desert of Rub' al Khali. For the first time in years, I embarked for a destination of which I had no notion. No literary, historical, or cultural references —save for a few fleeting childhood dreams and the occasional glimpse from the media. I knew nothing, really. This ignorance required me to approach the journey with caution, and the humility of a beginner. And so, before setting off, I immersed myself in “Arabian Sands”, a classic written by Wilfred Thesiger, eminent English anthropologist whose life’s work centered on the region and the Arab world.

In the late 1940s, Wilfred Thesiger travelled to the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula to live among the Bedouins, experience their daily challenges of hunger and thirst, long, arduous walks under the relentless sun and the constant danger of death. Spending almost four years there, he was the first European to visit most of the region, and just before he left, the process that would change it forever had begun: the discovery of oil.

Although this book was not written by the Bedouins themselves, and must therefore be treated with the necessary caution, it remains an invaluable resource for understanding the forces that shaped these civilizations and the profound transformation that followed. The discovery of oil precipitated these countries into the capitalist world, transforming ancient traditions in favor of rapid urbanization: nomads settled, agriculture was set aside, and global commerce flowed into the once-isolated Peninsula, forever altering its relationship with the world.

Oman, however, has charted a somewhat different course. Concerned with preserving its different cultures, maintaining more limited natural resources and diversifying its economy, the country has embraced modernization more gradually and has so far kept a relatively discreet approach to tourism. However, it was said by road and camping enthusiasts that the country was a particularly interesting destination for its diversity of landscapes and cultures.

Nearly eighty years after Thesiger, here I stand at the threshold of the Rub' al Khali. Of the Bedouin way of life, little remains visible. Twice, when stuck in the sands, I was fortunate enough to encounter solitary nomads, still living around their herds. But camels, once prized companions in a nomad's survival, and for whom they would have sacrificed even their own water, are now bred primarily for meat, milk, or tourism. In Thesiger's time, Bedouins could trace the passage of strangers by studying the footprints of their herds. You then had to hurry to be the first reaching the next oasis, or change course to avoid trouble.

Today, a brand-new road is being carved from the desert's entrance to the Saudi border. Trucks loaded with gravel crawl slowly through the sands, leaving thick clouds of dust in their wake. To reach the first dunes, you still have to venture off the beaten path, dodging flat tires and the risk of sinking. I find it hard to believe that hotels and tourist facilities will one day flourish here. Near Salalah, a verdant coastal region, resorts are springing up in anticipation of the growing tide of visitors. Even in Thesiger's day, he mourned the changes beginning to shape the landscape. And perhaps it is true—once a few of us venture into these remote places, the path opens for many, and the delicate balance that once existed is altered forever.

Yet, I journeyed through Oman with a sense of wonder. Tent and water tank in the trunk, as I made my way from one village to the next, only stopping for fuel. Ramadan has arrived, streets are empty, shops closed. And as I travel, I find myself attuned to a myriad of small details: the many voices of mu'adhdhins calling for prayer, the thick smoke of frankicense burning in front of the bazaar stalls, the hundreds of embroidered patterns on each kumma, a camel on the side of the road that the sound of my car awakens, the muffled laughter of the tobacco vendor when I choke on the midwakh, the little oasis miraculously found in the hollow of a mountain, the flamboyant mosques and the new shopping malls now facing them, the women draped in black floating along the sidewalks, the soft mass of the horizon at sunset, the mysterious footprints found in the sand every morning around the tent. There is a life here one would never suspect, one that knows how to keep its secrets.

Every journey, I’ve come to believe, lies at the intersection of three elements: the images we carry with us (and from which we cannot completely escape), the knowledge we strive to acquire, and the realities we witness when we arrive. And therein lies the challenge for every traveler: we must read, study, and learn if we are to overcome preconceptions and fairy tales. But once we arrive, we must also be willing to temporarily forget what we know, or else the profound nature of a place will never fully reveal itself.

If that is what we’re seeking, after all.

References:

• Wilfred Thesiger, Arabian sands (1959)

• Wendell Phillips Oman: A History (1967)

• From Wilfred Thesiger also: The marsh Arabs (1964)