Buraimi

A nomadic childhood has its ups and downs. The downs are many and the ups few. In short, it is not pleasant to have to leave a place you start to consider home when you are three or four or even six or seven or eight. Heck the agony of being the new kid in class completely outweighs any sense of adventure you might anticipate in exploring a new land. There comes a time when you stop making friends altogether. You stop having any expectations from strangers and invent your own ways of entertainment. Although a sad existence you grow up with one hell of a colorful imagination and the ability to chameleonize, if such a trait even exists, yourself to any surrounding. No body remembers you as their childhood friend and you know so many and such a variety of people that you really tend to forget where exactly you met them. Among the varied landscapes I got to inhabit as a kid one of the littlest spit of God's earth was named Buraimi. Al- Buraimi as the Arabs like to call everything. At the time I was there, it was an open border between Al-Ain and Oman and many of my relatives in Dubai used to drive down for the weekends, which was more of an inconvenience then blessing. When you're small all your memories depict things much larger than they actually were. Hence if you visit a place you remember as a kid you will find it to be really quite smaller than how you imagined it. Now Buraimi was so tiny that my memories also portray it as a very limited space. The only structures in the entire place(seriously) was the five or so storey high apartment that we inhabited the third floor of, a dirt road in front, across which lay my father's office. My school was a twenty to thirty minute trip into Al-Ain, which was a glorious city full of parks and villas that I got to see mostly on weekends or rushing by through my dad's car window each morning.
I made some extraordinary friends in this desolate place and formulated the most intriguing form of spending hours of afternoon time when my family insisted on taking a siesta. Lat me tell you that all my friends were imaginary. Yup they were all a figment of my imagination and boy did we have a riot of a time together. to give my 'friends' more of a character I would sit in front of the dressing table mirror and talk my own ear off. the magical thing about that mirror was that it was a perfect circle with two dissection at the left and right. Some genius had added hinges to those two dissections so that it could be moved inwards and your image multiplied manifold. Hence whenever I yearned the company of many I merely turned the two portions inwards and viola! I had a whole party to chat with. But even in my minds eye I knew that friends had to go home to their mommies, so leave they did and I still had hours to kill before anyone woke up. That was when I scrambled to the very edge of my room's window and watched the trailer that brought in the latest Toyota cars for, lucky for me, there was a showroom on the ground floor of our abode. It was thrilling to watch the shiny new paint on those four wheelers and how the workers would fold out the panels to bring down the cars on the top floor of the trailer. Like I said it was a sad existence but it taught me to depend on myself for fun rather unlike the generation today that needs so many gadgets and social outlets in order for them to have fulfilling days.