Bedu

To test the bike I went for a drive to Little Petra, ten km from Wadi Musa. Just outside Wadi Musa, you pass the artificial Bedu Village. Until 1985 local people had been living in Petra. Once it became a major touristic site, they were relocated to this village. Although it has no historic value or any character, it is a lively place, packed with Bedu people, drinking tea in the shade, overactive kids scrambling around and donkeys everywhere. As I was tempted by the numerous tracks on the side of the road, I didn’t make it to Little Petra; instead I went for a bit of off-road. I played around a bit. Boys don’t change, it’s the toys that do. They become bigger and more expensive. That is all. I wished I had a pair of ‘nobblies’ with me, to be able to explore this area a bit further. Then I certainly wished I had nobblies on it, the moment I hit this soft sandy patch, started skating rather clumsily and was tossed off the bike. No harm done, the thing is made for it, after all it is designed to ride the Paris-Dakar. My stunt had attracted two local men, who invited me for ‘chai’ (tea) in their Bedu tent.

I met Mahmoud, his wife and his kids, one of his nine brothers, his youngest sister (the stunningly beautiful Fatma), his parents and his brother in law, Houssein. His parents lived out there in a Bedu tent and a small makeshift house. They were passing the afternoon in Bedu style, sitting in the shade of a traditional black goat hair tent, drinking tea and discussing the latest gossip, and perhaps that lonely cowboy on an orange bike. Mahmoud was a certified guide in Petra. He introduced me to his family, offered me tea and welcomed me in the name of his entire family. His parents and their two youngest (unmarried) kids still lived in the tent. He lived with his family in a beautiful house in the nearby Bedu village. He guided me around Little Petra and invited me to share dinner at his house with some friends. I followed him to his home and was shown around the big house. He is part of the first generation Bedu to live in a real house. He told me that, although his house had two fully equipped bedrooms, the family never used them. He would always sleep with his wife and the kids in the central room, on a thin mat under a protective l layer of heavy blankets. You can get the nomad out of the desert, but you cannot get the desert out of the Nomad.

We had this delicious rice and chicken dinner. I shared the meal with Mahmoud and a couple of friends. The women would share their meal later, separated from the men. Tradition is a rigid thing. Being the foreigner they gave me a plate and a spoon. I politely refused them and ate with my hands. You make little balls of rice with your hand; dip it in yoghurt and a piece of chicken and hup there you go. The tricky part is that you only can use your right hand. The left is used for, well, for other activities. It was a bit messy at the start, but you get the hang of it pretty soon, and you earn the respect of your dinner companions. In the end I have been learned; In Rome, do as the Romans.

Dinner was followed by some more tea and talk. Mahmoud was shocked when he heard what I was paying for my hotel and invited me to sleep at his parents place the next night. I gratefully accepted the offer. He showed me a crumbling copy of a National Geographic, December 1998. For 8 weeks he had guided a National Geographic reporter couple around Petra on their assignment. He proudly showed me the pictures of his parents. The pictures could have been taken the day before.

Nothing had really changed in 11 years.