High over the sea, on the cliffs of Daffa, the boy with oily hair walks up to me and raises his little face in greeting. I stoop low, and we touch noses in bedouin greeting. And the sun is blazing but we’re alright because you can’t go wrong in Daffah, which comes from ‘daafi,’ which means neither too hot nor too cold. Because the little village is perched close enough to the sea and high enough above it, and also has a wadi behind, a little harbour beneath, and a half moon of sandy beach: just the right mix for a comfortable if slightly sleepy existence.
Things got so idyllic that Shakeel Khamis Mohammed al Harbi went on to have 11 children, funding his growing family with the 13 rials a day he earns with his minibus, driving the children to school to the village of Ruways down the road. When there were fewer schools he’d drive the bus all the way to Ras al Hadd, and did that for a decade.
We’re slurping through watermelons on the plastic carpet by the side of the road that dead-ends at the cliffs, leaning into the shade of the old minibus that needs to be replaced. His next buy, used, will cost 3-5,000 rials, but last enough school trips to keep the momentum running. And that’s the best you could hope for in Daffa. That and enough children to fill a minibus.
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