Things you can learn from truck drivers

There is a principle that I have to accept as a matter of fact in this world: Those who have the least are the ones most willing to give.

For the past two days, I have been reporting from the Al Ghuwaifat border post on the UAE-Saudi Arabia frontier, telling the stories of thousands of truckers who have been waiting for days on end to complete their journeys, hauling the goods and materials that make the GCC a fast and growing economic region.

It is a region rich in resources, determined to succeed, nigh-obsessed with economic growth and prosperity.

But these truckers do not have a high place in society. They came here seeking a better life, and pound the paved arteries of the GCC to improve the lives of their families, wherever their homes may be.

In good times, a typical truck driver could make six or eight trips a month, driving the roads from Dubai to Doha and back in three days, and earning Dh200 a roundtrip for his labour.

But over the past year, these are not good times, and those labours have come with pains.

The downturn cut the need for goods, and now these knights of the open road make three or four trips a month.

In June, I spent three days documenting these truckers' plight, watching them wait for days on end to cross Saudi land as Riyadh authorities imposed fingerprinting and security measures.

Back then, I drank chai and turkish coffee, enjoyed fruit and offerings from these drivers.

Five months later, while their incomes are lower, I have received more offers of Al Fresco dining, coffee, tea, cold water, drinks and anything else they could offer.

I am not sure if this is an Arabic custom, offering hospitality to all. I am not sure if it is a Pashtun custom, making strangers feel welcome.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, I walked through a matrix of trucks, 17 rows deep, 25 or 30 trucks long. Drivers gathered in what little shade there was, sat on pristine carpets under their rigs, smoked shisha in the shade, or chatted in groups of two and threes in tongues as diverse as the loads their trucks pulled.

"Please, have tea."

"Please, join us."

"Please, have a Pepsi."

"Please, some water."

"Please join us."

Their English is not the best. My Arabic limited to la, nam and shukran. My Hindi is even worse.

But I can tell you that I have never been welcomed so much by a cadre who have little to offer except an incredible generosity and the patience to sit and wait and wait and wait some more.

I have been offered bean curry, a dish so good I will look for it next time I visit Karama — I do not expect to find it in the restaurants and bistros where expats can be usually found. It was tempting to sit cross-legged and delve into with ripped fresh bread, but I could not bring myself to do so — I honestly do not feel I am good enough to break bread with these unsung heroes.

I have seen chai brewed in at least five different ways, the milk — condensed or not, added before boiling, after boiling, with sugar, without — always a matter of debate.

I have seen coffee instant, slow brewed, thick or light, but always offered and a universal look of disappointment as I pass. I wish I could savour the flavours at each and every truck. I cannot. I do not have the time. Instead, it is these truckers who are forced to take the time to sit and brew and stew over what is happening.

I have a respect found anew for these hard-working and generous souls. If only we all could learn from their giving.