“How I love the water. The sound of seagulls, the rhythm of the waves, the feel of diving in with the coolness rushing over me.” I say to no one in particular, lost in thought and dreams.
“And in front of you, this certainly isn’t the shores of Puget Sound or your wheat fields of Pendleton…” her voice slices through the morning’s opening glow of the sun’s rays. Her words wake me from my trance with desert sands shifting in the wind. Her voice is familiar but not… more rhythmic, accentuating. This subtle change creates a flow of electricity to my ears.
Her Arabic melody and the scent of exotic spices further tune me in that I’m far from home.
There is something magical about being on foreign soil. “In the first days in a strange new land, awaken beasts in us…” I mutter, a lyric from Snow Patrol’s song, Life on Earth. I look into her eyes and am comforted.
From her silhouetted face come proverbial words, “The truth of every dawn holds new dreams, new opportunities for the day ahead…” I gaze at her, noticing a perceptive change, but I know Ranya well. I wonder if she is the truth of today’s dawn.
The welcomed warmth of the rising sun lifts my spirit. “I’ve dreamt about trekking in Wadi Rum for as long as I can remember,” I blissfully state. “I suppose it’s the adventures of T.E. Lawrence I read as a kid.” I look up, wondering about the six-hour hike through rock outcroppings, small peaks, and the glorious dunes of the Jordanian desert that lie ahead. It’s a perfect recipe for spending Christmas Day 2023, with circumstances keeping me away from family back in the States.
“Hello, Randall,” my guide Suleman greets me. “Good to see you again…” he looks to his left, and there is a young face aglow with anticipation… eyes shining, speaking to the quest ahead.
Suleman looks a little embarrassed as he explains, “My son will come along with us… he was excited to hear I would guide you today, so he camped out in the jeep this morning, and I couldn’t tell him no…”
His son’s smile lights up, taking me back to my youth and those days of excitement of an unexpected adventure. “The more, the merrier!” I laugh.
I shake his hand, his accented English better than expected, but his introduction is what shakes me: “I am Osama. What is your name?”
My mind freezes. I reply as if on auto, “Er, Randall…” Slowly, my brain processes what he just said. It feels juvenile on my part, but damn. That name triggers a response in me. Anger and resentment flare up within… Did I hear him correctly?
We begin our drive to the base where our hike will begin, and I can’t piece together this young kid, his eager smile strong, eyes glowing, glancing at me every now and then, appreciative of being able to explore Wadi Rum this morning.
It’s one of those smiles from any child experiencing something new, something foreign, and with nothing but great expectations ahead. A shade of embarrassment and disappointment sweeps in. The name. I can’t stop thinking about it… why is this feeling lingering?
“It’s funny, the kid sure has taken a shine to you…” she looks into my eyes. “He gets to practice English and enjoys your sense of humor and adventurous spirit.” Ranya’s mysterious eyes mesmerize me further at this moment as she continues. “You do have a way of drawing people in… an optimist who finds good in the world.”
For the past couple of hours, this kid has been amazing. From the moment we started the hike, he explained every herb and flower we saw along the way – his spirit shining out here in the desert.
“A child’s gift to adults is the ability to look inside our youthful hearts again,” she sympathizes and adds a bit of Rumi, “Youth gives us new dreams to dream…”
“Suleman told me earlier when Osama heard he was going to lead an American on this hike, his eyes lit up,” Ranya muses, and we watch him and his father walk ahead through a small pass. His spirit reminds me of my nieces and nephews when they were young – no fear or prejudices, just a happy curiosity to explore the world.
“He’s a good kid,” she smiles, sitting down on the sand. “The world’s future starts with the innocence of youthful ideas.” With a pause, she adds, “So, if you write about this adventure today, will you use his real name or a pseudonym?”
Her words catch me off-guard and hit deep. I think about how I churned his name around my mind when he introduced himself. Honestly, it was not a pleasant thought. Hearing that name being placed on someone real in front of me is a strange sensation. And to have this someone be a kid with such a smile and spirit. It put my mind in flux…
Even now, I sense my words are still trying to convince myself. “Yes, I will use his name if I write about this day…” I answer, still not entirely convinced of this promise.
Her sigh, meant to be heard, is disappointment at my tone’s perceived lack of sincerity. “It’s a common name in the Middle East, ” her eyes sear into me. “Common, much like John is common in the USA,” she breathes.
Interestingly, she chose the name John. I have a few great friends with that name, and none were named after John Wilkes-Booth, John Wayne Gacy, or John Hinckley. Another discomforting feeling. My prejudice here is disappointing because this reaction of mine feels so natural and comes from deep within.
I rise from the sand without answering and begin walking to catch up with Osama and his father, aware this prejudice held inside can’t be ignored.
The sand, heavier with every step, resembles how unfounded biases can weigh down a logical world, swirling into depths, unaware.
“There is a Bedouin tradition,” Suleman looks at me as we round the bend, and in the distance, black dots sit in contrast against the sand and sandstone outcropping. “Sharing tea with strangers is in our culture, and my family welcomes you.”
Ahead, I see a small oasis and shepherds with their goats. Patches of green nestle within this desert valley, and after trekking for a few hours, the thought of sitting down to rest is appealing.
We pick up our pace.
Diving into something new, there’s nothing better. And if the water of Puget Sound isn’t available, the next best option is diving into a new culture.
A stream of Arabic is spinning me around. I’m able to distinguish words, but there is no meaning. My eyes are drawn to the activity around a herd of goats. A lot of smiles and discussion, and Osama leads a beautiful black nanny goat to Suleman.
A small laugh catches my attention, and Ranya walks towards me, giving me the rundown. “I told them you would be honored to join them in drinking fresh goat milk tea…”
My stomach flips a few times. Maybe my groan or the shock on my face gives away my true feelings; her hand resting on my arm, she laughs lightly beneath the veil. “I told them there would be nothing you’d like more. Such experiences like this are what you live for… yes?”
In the heart of Wadi Rum, I’m left speechless, watching a father and son team effortlessly corral the goat. Soft desert sand blowing around me.
Sometimes, I find myself gazing at Ranya, an enigma to me. While she is undeniably beautiful, her free-spirited mind attracts me the most. Here in Wadi Rum, she is in her element; her every move and word seem to exude novelty and exploration, and it arouses my courage.
She looks up, her eyes smiling, and then turns towards the Bedouin family. Suleman holds a small metal mug in one hand and begins milking in the other. Osama looks at his Dad and glances at me with a confident smile. And so it begins…
The eyes of the Bedouin, Ranya, and Wadi Rum hold more sparks and allure than I ever imagined. Something new and mysterious, such as this tradition, is unfolding before me.
A fire is built from dead white saxaul roots, and a teapot that has seen better days is filled with tea leaves and placed into the fire. Alongside the container of frothy goat milk awaits.
My first thought is logical for me. I can’t help thinking: what are the risks of getting sick from this tea? “You were thrown from a horse the other day in the hills of Petra, you’ve camped and hiked throughout the Dana Nature Reserve… and now you are concerned about a delicacy of fresh goat milk tea?” her words cut through any worries I have.
I sit beside her, relaxed by the logic. I pull out my camera, look at Suleman’s father, whom I’ve nicknamed Omar Sharif, and nod for permission. He returns the nod and adds, “You are our guest. Please feel free among us.”
The tea is excellent due to the ambiance of where I am and who I am with. Life is often this way – happiness and comfort to be found anywhere with good company.
After enjoying my third cup of goat milk tea, I will only take back the tradition of brewing cardamom coffee, a daily ritual for me in Jordan. But cheers to trying new things!
A chant of Arabic emits from a phone, and everything falls silent. It’s a direct feed from Mecca, and from my days here in Jordan, I know it’s time for prayer. I reach for my camera, and Suleman nods in approval. The group slowly rises to perform their afternoon prayer.
Spiritual people always pique my interest. I admire those who have the dedication to believe in something where the core values promote goodness. As if on cue, the sun flickers through the clouds, and as with prayers worldwide, a peaceful and honest devotion shines through.
Osama receives a signal and stands alone, reciting a prayer. After finishing, he kneels beside his father. It is impossible not to be captivated by the scene. While I’m conscious of taking photos, I cannot help but want to capture the moment.
My camera slides to my side, and we say goodbye to Omar and the family and set off to climb a nearby peak to witness and capture the sunset. Ranya moves closer and whispers, “When walking into the sun, there is no other beauty on earth to hold you back….”
I can’t argue with these words, although I imagine the glow of us all marching toward the peak may come close to matching the beauty of a desert sunset. As the sun’s fading rays signal the end of the day, a predictable undertone of sadness slowly arrives.
Arriving at our Wadi Rum campsite, a few Bedouins we met the day before greet us as we walk in with dinner waiting. Smiling, they ask me if Suleman was a good guide. I remember when I was a kid, and one of my Dad’s friends asked another friend how the hunt went, and he replied, “Well, Rey did OK, but Randy was something else…” and the pride I felt hearing those words.
My reply to the Bedouin is in a similar vein: “Suleman is good, but Osama is excellent.” Amid the laughter and playful agreement with everyone, I can see the pride and happiness in Osama’s eyes.
Suleman asks to see the photo of him and his son, and his reply is gold: “Thank you, we enjoyed today. You were nice to Osama, and he is overjoyed.” Although it may seem simple, I sense that Suleman cherished the day and is proud of his son.
Life is good. Made better by opening up and meeting wonderful people.
I’ve come to a realization about myself and the fragility of human nature. As I age, I’ve learned to accept it, but there’s a risk of developing biases and prejudices within one’s soul over time, silently without us ever noticing. It’s unnerving. Today, Osama taught me a valuable lesson.
As Clint Black sang many years ago, “I’m leaving here a better man…”
The world, for the most part, isn’t black and white. At its core, it’s a simple, peaceful, and perfect shade of everything.
كن التغير الذي تريد أن تراه في العالم.
Global Sojourns: Photography & Philosophy 
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