Walking through the towering walls of the canyon . . .

 The Treasury is revealed, carved exquisitely into the pinkish orange rock face. Cacophonous chaos fills in the enclosed space ~ camels, horses, & donkeys amongst the throes of visitors. Navigating through, I made my way to The Street of Façades; tombs built into a cliff face.

A man creating art in a glass vial out of colored sand was kind enough to allow me to photograph him. The next two sellers had vibrant spices & incense that tickled my lens as well. Twfeeq greeted me and asked where I was from. “America” is the recognized response, not United States or the US. His English was quite good and we engaged in a conversation. He invited me to sit for tea, which unfortunately I cannot drink and have had the misfortune of declining it at every turn. It is customary to serve guests tea (with a healthy scoop of sugar) or cardamom coffee.

Not long into the conversation, he asked me to join him & his wife in the Bedouin Village for dinner that evening. Ever diligent, I defaulted to the Spidey-sense to indicate if this was a good idea. He said he had four small children & somehow, that was the deciding factor. If I’ve gained anything in these travels of mine, it is knowing when to say yes to the kindness of strangers.

With more exploring to be had, I promised to return.

As we walked, a small pick-up truck (Toyota Hilux is the caravan of choice in these parts) loaded down with men pulled alongside us. A man jumped out of the front seat & offered it to me, whilst Twfeeq got in the back. (My mother is freaking out reading this tale at this point.) Out the backside of the monument, up a rocky dirt narrow “road”, the Hilux clambered. At the edge of the village, there is a gatehouse with tall fencing topped with barbed wire. If you’ve watched enough current war-based movies or tv shows, you have an idea of what this country looks like.

Nondescript cinder block walled buildings, with rebar sticking out of the roof (in case they want to build a second story), no paint or decoration, dimly lit with doors & windows open. Laundry hanging over balconies, small children running through the streets, stray dogs, cats, donkeys & camels, too. The brightest is the single storefront market, spilling over with cheap plastic items & unhealthy treats. We are forced to jump out of the truck before his house because there is a pile of gravel in the middle of the street. Construction, evidently.

Out of the alley, three adorable little girls come running and fling themselves into Daddy’s arms. The smiles burst from their faces and they are in awe of the strange blonde woman that has come to share a meal. His wife, Shouk, a Muslim woman, wears a hijab & a simple black dress. She is soft-spoken, with gentle eyes and a lovely smile.

Removing my shoes, I am welcomed into their home. The main room has nothing but a large carpet with some cushions along the wall on which to sit. Their son is a scrumptious giggling 3 year old that bounces from sister to sister. The room has doors on each wall, and with the exception of the kitchen door, they are all closed. I’ve been left alone with the children to entertain me, which they do beautifully. Salma, 8, Raffif, 6, Leyon, 5, Arcan, 3 all curly-haired brunettes with deep brown eyes. Shouk joins us & we share pumpkin seeds, even though they don’t know where they come from. Language barriers always result in ridiculous hand gestures. How best does one describe that round orange gourd?

Twfeeq returns with a huge platter of rice topped with grilled chicken, a local dish called mansaf, and places it in the middle of the carpet on the floor. We encircle the dish and everyone dives in. I’m the only one given a spoon, since I cannot eat the pita bread, but all the others use their bread to scoop up a helping of food. (My mother is really cringing now.) 

Over dinner, we speak about the village. Twfeeq says the government wants to drive the Bedouins out so they can build hotels on the land. I ask where he would go, since Petra has always been his home. He said, “I will take my family back to the caves and live there.” CAVES. Yes, people live in the caves on the backside of Petra. He tells me about the tourists and how if he has a bad day, he might not be able to feed his family that night. And yet, here he is feeding me.

This is a man whose traditional clothing is clean & pressed; clearly a proud man.

The night was ending, the children had fallen asleep beside me and it was time for me to head to my hotel. Before I left, Shouk brought me the most beautiful shawl ~ embroidered, made from camel hair ~ as a gift. So touched, I could barely breathe from the emotions I was fighting. 

One year ago, I lost a precious scarf given to me by my Nepalese guide, stolen with my trailer. Coming full circle, the serendipity is priceless, as is this gift – not only the shawl but the whole experience.