white kandura was pristine at all hours of the day. Pure cotton, yet somehow never stained or wrinkled. His closely cropped beard seemed never to lengthen or get shorter. There were never bags under his eyes or lines from a bad night’s sleep around his face. At all times, he seemed ready to be called for a cover shoot for GQ.
Despite having the strong jaw and high-cheekbones of a catwalk model, Qasid ran his own company. He worked as a self-employed cultural ambassador – arguably the best in the country – used by every major multinational to provide lectures to expats from London, Paris or New York when they arrived.
He probably did more than any other single person in the nation to keep new arrivals from falling foul of the many culturally specific laws that so often seemed to ensnare the unwary. For the British, per capita, more people fall afoul of the law in Dubai than in any other place in the world.
Qasid taught them how to avoid offending the locals.
He was the best because he avoided the usual simplistic mechanism of ‘don’t do this’ or ‘make sure you say that’. Qasid had a subtler technique. He taught you why the Emiratis thought and acted the way they did.
While a single lecture could never reveal the true depth and complexity of a culture as esoteric as the UAE, Qasid correctly assumed that once you had an inkling of how Emiratis thought, you could understand or at the very least appreciate what would be appropriate and what was out of bounds.
On the whole, Blake had always found Emiratis to be an exceptionally tolerant and forgiving people. If you showed the merest hint of trying to appreciate their customs, they would bend over backwards to accommodate yours in return.
“Now, if I’m not mistaken, this particular design is Afghan in origin,” Qasid said.
“You can tell that?”
“Yes ,” the Emirati replied. “The patterning is similar to a Persian device – but the wood, and in particular this decoration here, means...”
He trailed off as he dug his nail into one of the inlaid panels. There was an audible click that echoed from the walls of his home. A small section of the wood lifted fractionally.
“Aha! As I suspected,” he exclaimed with triumph.
Blake leaned forward. The beautiful white and grey tiles of Qasid’s marble floor were cool under his feet. He’d left his shoes beside the door when he entered his friend’s palatial home.
“It’s open?” Blake asked hopefully.
Qasid creased with laughter.
“Oh, goodness me no!” he said as he caught his breath. “But it’s ready to begin the process. The way it works is very simple. Watch.”
Qasid’s fingers moved dexterously. He rearranged the tiles, shifting stamp-sized panes around each face of the box.
“In olden times, when you wanted to keep an item safe you’d have a devil of a time – so this is like a safe. Now in early ones you had to reorganize the panels to form a pattern that worked like a combination lock,” he said, as he continued working the mechanism.
“Inside is a small space – large enough for a photo or a message or a broach. There’s also a phial. Usually it contains a potent acid. Try to break in, the phial breaks and the contents are destroyed.”
“So you need to be careful?” Blake said.
“Exactly. Now this one is a later design and incorporates the combination lock theme with the need for a key. You see these holes here? There are five of them. It’s a final safety device. Only one keyhole is real. The others are fake. Put your key in the wrong hole and once again...”
“The phial shatters,” Blake finished the sentence, “destroying the contents.”
“Right,” Qasid said.
With a final snap of his wrist Qasid finished manipulating the panels and showed off the five small keyholes, one in every face except the top.
“You have the key, right?” he asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Blake replied.
Qasid paused. He thought for a few moments, then picked up his
Despite having the strong jaw and high-cheekbones of a catwalk model, Qasid ran his own company. He worked as a self-employed cultural ambassador – arguably the best in the country – used by every major multinational to provide lectures to expats from London, Paris or New York when they arrived.
He probably did more than any other single person in the nation to keep new arrivals from falling foul of the many culturally specific laws that so often seemed to ensnare the unwary. For the British, per capita, more people fall afoul of the law in Dubai than in any other place in the world.
Qasid taught them how to avoid offending the locals.
He was the best because he avoided the usual simplistic mechanism of ‘don’t do this’ or ‘make sure you say that’. Qasid had a subtler technique. He taught you why the Emiratis thought and acted the way they did.
While a single lecture could never reveal the true depth and complexity of a culture as esoteric as the UAE, Qasid correctly assumed that once you had an inkling of how Emiratis thought, you could understand or at the very least appreciate what would be appropriate and what was out of bounds.
On the whole, Blake had always found Emiratis to be an exceptionally tolerant and forgiving people. If you showed the merest hint of trying to appreciate their customs, they would bend over backwards to accommodate yours in return.
“Now, if I’m not mistaken, this particular design is Afghan in origin,” Qasid said.
“You can tell that?”
“Yes ,” the Emirati replied. “The patterning is similar to a Persian device – but the wood, and in particular this decoration here, means...”
He trailed off as he dug his nail into one of the inlaid panels. There was an audible click that echoed from the walls of his home. A small section of the wood lifted fractionally.
“Aha! As I suspected,” he exclaimed with triumph.
Blake leaned forward. The beautiful white and grey tiles of Qasid’s marble floor were cool under his feet. He’d left his shoes beside the door when he entered his friend’s palatial home.
“It’s open?” Blake asked hopefully.
Qasid creased with laughter.
“Oh, goodness me no!” he said as he caught his breath. “But it’s ready to begin the process. The way it works is very simple. Watch.”
Qasid’s fingers moved dexterously. He rearranged the tiles, shifting stamp-sized panes around each face of the box.
“In olden times, when you wanted to keep an item safe you’d have a devil of a time – so this is like a safe. Now in early ones you had to reorganize the panels to form a pattern that worked like a combination lock,” he said, as he continued working the mechanism.
“Inside is a small space – large enough for a photo or a message or a broach. There’s also a phial. Usually it contains a potent acid. Try to break in, the phial breaks and the contents are destroyed.”
“So you need to be careful?” Blake said.
“Exactly. Now this one is a later design and incorporates the combination lock theme with the need for a key. You see these holes here? There are five of them. It’s a final safety device. Only one keyhole is real. The others are fake. Put your key in the wrong hole and once again...”
“The phial shatters,” Blake finished the sentence, “destroying the contents.”
“Right,” Qasid said.
With a final snap of his wrist Qasid finished manipulating the panels and showed off the five small keyholes, one in every face except the top.
“You have the key, right?” he asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Blake replied.
Qasid paused. He thought for a few moments, then picked up his
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