I feel a sharp pain piercing through my spine. I know this pain all too well, and I realize it’s not a good sign. My back is acting up again. Just yesterday, we were scrambling through Petra, following our guide who kindly offered his services and his donkey. The kids jumped with joy: “Can we ride together on it?”
Samir, our guide, led us through the mountains of Petra, its gigantic rocks and ancient quarries, far from the beaten paths. He showed us the hidden corners of the site. And as night fell, with the sky ablaze above the pink rocks of Petra, he bid us farewell.
Petra is stunning and magical at this moment. The tourists have deserted it, but the Bedouins who primarily depend on tourism are still there, offering all sorts of trinkets and rides on their donkeys or camels.
We knew that these constant solicitations could become a bit overwhelming when we entered the Siq, the canyon leading to the Treasury and the Petra site, where we planned to spend three days to avoid marathon days of visiting for the kids. Petra is much larger than it initially appears.
But as the days passed, the Bedouins revealed themselves to be the soul of Petra. They live in caves and know the site and the mountains like no one else. They welcome you into their tent after a strenuous ascent and offer you their sweet tea.
Some of them speak French or Dutch, and all of them speak English. Finally, communication is possible. They tell us about their friends or family in France, and one mentions that he has been to the Netherlands several times and even collaborated on a documentary. It’s clear that they are not as cut off from the world as we might think. Yet they live a rudimentary life in tents or caves without water or electricity.
“I feel sad for them living like that, Mom,” Arthur tells me, noticing a child near a tent. So I ask Arthur if they are unhappy or if they live a simple life, much simpler than theirs. It’s a difficult question for kids who have everything. Anna and Arthur nod thoughtfully. “It’s true that you can be rich but unhappy, and poor yet happy,” Anna replies. So I ask them what they think of the Bedouins. “Are the Bedouins happy?” They respond, “They look happy. They live in a very beautiful place and seem to know each other well.” Anna is amused to see them greeting each other from one mountain to another as if they were across the street. “How do they recognize each other from so far away?” she wonders.
No, the Bedouins are not unhappy. They are rich in knowledge and exude an astonishing serenity. They seem to embrace this rudimentary life. They gaze at the landscape, the tombs of Petra from their spectacular vantage points, smoking their cigarettes while sipping tea. I have the feeling that they wouldn’t trade their lives for mine.
When we venture onto a somewhat challenging path, one of them advises us that it might be a bit steep and to hold on to the children carefully. And when wisdom finally compels us to turn back, he greets us with a simple, “I’ve told you.” This is the wisdom of the Bedouins, guardians of the place. They know, and humbly, they try to advise us. But we don’t always heed their discreet counsel.
Today, I am confined to bed, covered by four thick blankets in a tent in the Wadi Rum desert, the backdrop for the famous film “Lawrence of Arabia,” in southern Jordan. For even though we are in the desert, it’s cold in January. Earlier that morning, leaving Petra, I foolishly threw my back out trying to lift my backpack. Upon arriving in Wadi Rum, Abdoullah, our host, greets us in his 4×4 to take us to the camp. He is dressed in traditional Jordanian attire, with his red shesh on his head, a dark blue tunic, sunglasses, and a wide smile. He is a handsome young man, exuding the confidence of a prince. He smiles calmly and understands the situation.
As we navigate the path as slowly as possible to ease my back, he expresses concern for my condition and asks if I’ve seen a doctor. “Sometimes it’s better to consult right away rather than wait,” he advises me. I know myself; after a bit of rest, I’ll be fine. He nods and continues.
And here I am, lying in my tent with the majestic desert landscape before me. On the horizon, three camels traverse the pink desert plain, and a few jeeps return to the camp. There’s no internet, my battery is dead, my e-reader is in my bag, and I can’t move.
Abdoullah offered us tea. Jurgen asks him what there is to do. “Here, there’s nothing to do,” Abdoullah replies. So we take in the scenery, and when we decide the next day to cut our stay short and seek out a doctor, he responds, “I’ve told you.” Once again, I failed to listen. When I tell him, “I’ve learned my lesson for the rest of the trip,” he replies, “No. For the rest of your life.”
I nod my head. He’s right.
Globetrotterdammers 