Burqas On The Beach, Let Your Hair Out!

It’s kinda strange to watch Muslim couples at beach resorts. Especially when the wife is wearing a burqa while the husband walks several steps ahead in brightly flared beach shorts. It’s like he has an invitation to a party with Plus None on the ticket.

I’ve just returned from a very uneventful 5 day break in Malaysia. And by uneventful, I obviously mean I spent the entire holiday flat on my back turning crimson red under the scorching sun.

Penang is a strange island. My choice of hotel was a bizarre clusterfuck of every different nationality under the sun. But by far the most noticeable guests were those floating around the pool in burqas. Of course, I’m not talking literally. And that’s why they were the strangest.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for the Muslim wife whose fashion choices, voluntary or otherwise, have restricted her to the world’s worst Panda tanlines. But why would a Muslim couple decide to go on a BEACH holiday when it’s fairly obviously that much of the appeal is going to be numbed by your wife’s inability to actually engage in any of the shit that makes beach holidays…you know…fun?

• Hanging arse-first out of the Jacuzzi bar.

• Laying spreadeagled in the sand and challenging the sun to do it’s worst.

• Propping up the deep-end on a plastic float.

None of this is possible for Burqa Jean.

My stay in Penang was scattered with sightings of one particular couple who spent their days wandering around the hotel resort, sitting somewhere for five minutes, before meandering off again and repeating elsewhere. Let’s be honest, that’s what most couples do. It’s no worse than sitting by the pool and vegetating with a book. But I can at least understand that the old fogies get a kick out of this relaxing wind-down.

This Muslim couple never talked to each other. The Burqa-clad wifey would trail several meters behind and follow her husband like a puppy on a string. It was surreal. But then, what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t sunbathe, nor venture in to the sea, nor let her hair down out in the pool.

If her purpose was to look discrete and not draw attention in the sweeping veil, it backfired spectacularly. People spend MORE time staring if you place yourself in a black sheet and ghost around the pool like a Dementor that took a wrong turning.

I’m sure her religious choices are far more important than a bastard like me people-watching from my high horse, but I can’t even begin to imagine the sacrifices that must come with committing to a life under the burqa.

I find the clothing to be very pretentious. It’s designed to keep out the luring stares of men and any sordid soul who dares to feel the pinch in his loins. But as a fairly red blooded guy laying there in the sand, I’m thinking to myself…”Christ, love. Go and enjoy yourself in the sea. I’ll cover up my face if you’re that antsy about anybody watching.”

Respecting various religions on my travels is something I’m always keen to abide by, which is why I’m committing these thoughts to a blog rather than the hotel lobby. But I can never, and will never, agree with the burqa as a traditional, religious or personal statement.

Besides, those panda tanlines…

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