​​Welcome!

With gestures, he makes it clear that he doesn’t want my money. His hands, covered in grease, refuse the bills I extend with a big smile. “You are welcome!” he says as we sit on chairs behind a garage in Ibbin, a suburb of Ajloun, about 150 kilometers northwest of Amman. The mechanic has just “repaired” the rear tire of our rental car without wanting to accept payment in return.

This is representative of the generosity and hospitality of the Jordanian people. They don’t just say you are welcome; they make you feel it. Earlier in the afternoon, while visiting the historical site of Tell Mar Elias (a name that sounds familiar), believed to be the birthplace of the prophet Elijah, we were invited to join the site’s guards for tea. “Welcome! Chai?” And of course, you can’t refuse such an invitation.

So here we are, chatting over four cups of hot, sweet tea. Well, “chatting” might be too strong a word. Language remains a barrier for us in Jordan. In the larger cities, English is sufficient, but in the countryside where we are, almost no one speaks it. Despite having taken a few online Arabic courses before our departure, our vocabulary consists mainly of Merhaba (hello) and Choukrane (thank you).

“What’s that thing in the car tire, Dad?” Arthur asks as we head back to the car moments later. A piece of metal about an inch and a half long is lodged in the right rear tire. After considering removing it, we decide to drive and look for a garage (or Karaj in Arabic). Following the advice of a gas station attendant, we eventually find one.

An immediate approach comes from a man. I try “English?” but he shakes his head and grabs his phone. “What can I do for you?” flashes on the screen of the translator app. I point to the rear tire. He looks at it, enters his garage, and returns with a long metal pin that resembles a knitting needle, attached to a rubber band, and a sharp knife in the other hand. He removes the piece of metal from the tire, which immediately begins to hiss. With a swift motion, the steel pin with the rubber band is thrust into the hole. Then he twists it until the hissing stops, cuts off the excess, and it’s done. Cost: 1 Jordanian dinar. Less than one and a half euros. I give him double, and we continue on our way.

Shortly after, we hear air escaping from the tire again. When we return to the garage, he inspects it and tries to repair it with a larger plug. But I know we have a lot of driving ahead of us in the coming days, and that the roads can sometimes be bad, so I wonder if this plug will hold. Using the translator that Marie-Laure has now installed on my phone, I ask him how much a new tire costs. He understands that I need a more reliable solution. But he doesn’t have the tire in stock. What to do?

He gestures for me to bring the car inside. I comply, not knowing what his intentions are. He has Marie-Laure and the kids sit on the seats at the back of his grease-blackened garage, lifts the car with a jack, removes the wheel, and deflates the tire. I hear two dull thuds indicating he is removing the tire from the rim, and with the help of his young son, who is barely older than Anna, he starts to patch the tire with resin. Arthur watches the operation with fascination. Just fifteen minutes later, the tire is back on the car. We are relieved and grateful. In the Netherlands, this would take half a day and cost a fortune, but he refuses to let me pay anything. We don’t have enough words to thank him, so with our hands on our hearts, we leave, making gestures of appreciation.

Everywhere we’ve gone, people have welcomed us with open arms and have done their best to make our time unforgettable. They tell us where to go, what to do, refuse to let us pay, offer us tea, and give all sorts of things to the kids, who have even been offered fries for breakfast. And there’s no question of paying too much or more than we should. The Jordan Pass we purchased before leaving grants us access to all the tourist sites in the country. Parking is free, restaurants always give us more than we order, and when we say no, they thank us and wish us a good continuation. So we smile, sorry that we cannot engage more with this generous, humble, and welcoming people. And they smile back, happy to welcome us to their beautiful country. And every day, we see how a smile can overcome all language barriers.

Last night, our car took us to the shores of the Dead Sea. This morning, I woke up early. It’s 7 AM, and everyone is still asleep. When I go down to the hotel lobby, the hotel owner smiles at me and says, “You are most welcome, Sir!” It’s wonderful to start each day like this!