Jordan Explained

Bedouins learning the traditional art of mosaic-making; Nazeeh and Bedouin guide at Little Petra; Hotel staff twist towels into fanciful shapes hoping to earn a tip

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“Bedouins nearly wreck Petra,” said Nazeeh as we sat over a very late lunch. “Thousands of them everywhere. And gypsies. They camp in old buildings. No room for foreign visitors. Finally government throw almost all of them out. Build a village for the ones who stay. FREE. Bedouins not pay.”

“That’s nice,” I remarked. “But I didn’t see any signs of a village when I was down there.”

“No. Village destroyed because Bedouins bring their animals inside. Sheeps and goats indoors with people. Very dirty. And gypsies just hide until government people gone. Then they come back.”

“Oh dear.” What else could I say?

“But Bedouins are learning. Slowly.” Nazeeh chewed reflectively. “And compared to Gypsies, they’re very clean. Gypsy women have no shame.”

“What do you mean?”

Nazeeh sucked his teeth and didn’t answer. “Bedouins,” he launched into an obviously memorized spiel, “live in large tribal groups. There are twenty or thirty thousand in Jordan. Unlike the Gypsies, they work.”

“What do they do?”

“They farm and herd, look after sheeps and goats. A few even go to school and one became a government minister. They are Jordanian citizens and they wander only within certain areas. Usually they are quite clean.”

“Tell me about the gypsies.”

Nazeeh made a face. “They are dirty, they steal and they don’t work.”

“I didn’t know there were Gypsies in this part of the world.”

“Oh, yes. Thousands of years ago, a Romanian king kicked them out of his country because they wouldn’t comply with decency standards.” Nazeeh looked very proud at his use of this phrase. “They are not Jordanian citizens. They have no passports and they roam around between Syria and Saudi Arabia, often travelling through Jordan. Sometimes they work in circuses.”

As I searched for a rejoinder, Nazeeh pointed his fork at me. “They use magic.”

“Really?”

“Yes. When I was a boy, even though my father said it was forbidden, I watched them make their camp. An old man untied a scarf from around his neck. Just a little scarf. He put it on the ground and suddenly I saw many things. A big loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, a bag of olives and a knife. All from the little scarf that come from his neck.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Also, they hypnotise people. I see this with my own eyes. Gypsy woman come to my grandmother’s door and ask for water. My grandmother afraid but is bad luck to refuse gypsy food or water so she bring a cup of water. Gypsy woman sip water but all the time she talk, very low, in Gypsy language and hold out her hand. My grandmother walk like in her sleep and put six gold bracelets in Gypsy’s hand.”

“Your grandmother told you this?”

“No, I was there. I, Nazeeh, see this with my own eyes. I looking through the keyhole.”

“And you didn’t run in to stop your grandmother, to wake her up?”

“No, no. I am too afraid. Gypsies are dangerous. Also they are fortune telling which Quran says is very bad.”

“Are you still afraid of them now?”

“Yes, I am very afraid.”

Back on the road again, Nazeeh said, “Now I take you to special place. You mustn’t tell my boss because he will say I charge you money. But I no charge money. Many people not even know about this place. Little Petra.”

I managed the biggest smile I could muster from my still frozen depths. “Thank you.”

We bounced through a village of Bedouin tents until Nazeeh stopped the car and said, “Wait here.” Soon he returned with a Bedouin teenager in tow and we walked across a desolation of rock and sand. Eventually the boy began to point out facades gouged from the rock. We climbed up and he showed me Roman frescoes almost blackened out of existence by the smoke from camp fires.

“Little Petra was like a hotel by the wayside,” the boy explained. “Caravans stopped here if it was getting dark and they knew they wouldn’t make it to Petra before the sun set. There’s a legend about a secret tunnel that connects it to Petra and comes out in the chapel there. I’ve looked since I was a little boy, though, and never found it.”

As I was thanking him and doling out the requisite tip, he added, “I can give this tour in seven different languages but haven’t gone to school for even one day. Not ever.”

At long last, I arrived back at my hotel, damp and chilled to the bone. I drew a gigantic bath and lay in it until my skin puckered and the rocky cold of both Petras was vanquished.