Reflections on Jordan (3 of 3)

The afternoon sun made for an arduous hike back down into the valley. As we hiked along I could not help but marvel at the vivid colors of rocks. Petra is nicknamed the “Rose-red city of rock”, and indeed it is. Though to label Petra as rose-red would be to merely describe a stunning desert sunset as “orange”. In Petra, both the man made buildings and the natural cliff sides are a dazzling treat for the eyes. Some rocks look as though they’re composed of pastel blues, yellows and whites. Others are shades of magenta and brown with every shade in between. Still others look like an impressionists palette, with swirls of blue, red, orange and yellow. Even small rocks on the ground are neatly layered with bright colors, a fact that many enterprising Bedouins take full advantage of. It was an amusing sight to pass by small tables of choice rocks, with Bedouins shouting out in their best English, “Happy hour, one dinar!”

Unable to reconcile paying for rocks that I had been trampling underfoot for the better part of my morning, I set out to scavenge my own while we explored. As Peter and I walked, talked, and sweated along, we spotted a Bedouin woman in the distance crouched over, rummaging through some rocks. Assuming she’d found a good spot, we slowly started making our way over, trying to look more at the ground than at her. She noticed us coming closer, and hurried off up a small hill and toward the mouth of a cave, where a few others sat around a fire. Half on a whim and half in the hope of a unique personal encounter, we followed her to where the people were. Getting to the cave we saw there was a man, two old women, and a little boy and girl no more than 2 and 4 years old.

When they caught sight of us we were immediately welcomed and invited to sit with them. A small pot of tea was being heated on the fire, with what appeared to be gasoline jugs used to carry water. A donkey was tied nearby, donning a cloth saddle and dusty satchel which held their belongings. They spoke very little English, but when they filled small, filthy shot glasses with tea and handed them to us, there was no need for explanation.

I hesitated for a moment while eyeing the glass, but Peter reminded me, “You must drink it, it is an insult if you do not.”

Without a doubt it was the sweetest tea that I had ever had in my life. We thanked them, and tried our best to make small talk as we drank. Soon the children were out of their shell, and, obsessed with my sunglasses, were climbing all over me reaching for them. I played with the children, then took off my sunglasses and placed them over their eyes. Again the language barrier was broken as we all laughed, seeing the children smiling from ear to ear with a pair of sunglasses that covered half their faces!

Since this was certainly a moment worth remembering, I asked Peter to take a picture. As soon as he raised his camera, one of the women immediately protested. Although poised to take the photograph, he lowered the camera when she waved her hand across her throat, and uttered what he understood to be the word ‘husband’. “Oh, I see,” he said with an almost amused smile. “Your husband will cut my throat if we take your picture!”

Ever the wise traveler, he put his camera down and said to me in a sharp German accent, “I do not want you to have to tell my family that I had my throat cut!”

At some point while we were drinking one of the women started hitting a sack near her and yelling something in Arabic. I was quite confused until I saw the sack move and realized that there was another child wrapped up in it. She must have yelled at him to get up and join us. The man that I was sitting next to managed to tell me that the child was sick, and from what I understood he had a fever for the past two days. He asked if I had any medicine, but unfortunately I had left it back at the hostel.

Soon it was time for us to be on our way. I had an uneasy feeling as we said goodbye – from past experiences with people in the Mid East, this would be the point where they would ask for money, or demand that I give them something in return. We started walking away, and after a few meters I turned around to see if they were going to follow me, almost expecting it. They didn’t. In fact they were back to tending to the fire and children, not even looking at us. I walked back up to them and handed the man some coins, asking him to please use it to buy medicine for his child. Later on that day I saw them moving out, their donkey laden with their belongings and the sick child sitting on top. I hoped for his sake they were going to the nearest town.

It moved me how people who had almost nothing in this world – people who are born, live, and die roaming the desert in search of water, who carry every earthly possession – including a sick child – on the back of a donkey, could take in complete strangers and make sure they were refreshed and comfortable. I regretted not having a photograph to remember the experience by, but perhaps the most special memories are those that live solely in the mind and heart.

The sun was already low in the sky by the time we reached the Siq, and the treasury was now glowing a vibrant shade of pink. Peter stopped to gaze at it.

“This is the last time I will see it,” he said longingly.

I stared with him, feeling a strange longing in my heart, even though I would be back the next day.

Read Reflections on Jordan (1 of 3) and Reflections on Jordan (2 of 3).

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