Guests are a gift from God

Guests are a gift from God.  If a stranger shows up on your door unannounced, God is giving you an opportunity to serve Him.  You are to serve the guest for 3 days before you can even ask his name.

As the valet at the Dead Sea resort hands me my car keys he looks me in the eye and says very pointedly:  be careful.  I nonchalantly say “okay” and take my keys.  That was weird.  He probably said that because I’m a woman (eyes rolling).  Maybe it was because the roads are so steep and curvy; but I’ve driven them before, I know what to expect.  Maybe it was to warn me about the cop a mile down the road who would pull me over to give me a ticket; but I talked my way out of that one, no big deal.  Then why in the world was the valet so purposeful in telling me to be careful.  Oh…right.  The blizzard.

The road from the Dead Sea to Petra reminds me of the Sound of Music.  “Climb. Every…mountain!”  We weren’t in cute hats crossing the snow-capped Alps on foot, but we were about to climb what feels like every single mountain in Jordan.  We weren’t going to cross or go through – both of which imply roads between the mountains or tunnels through them.  We were going to CLIMB.  Up and down and up and down.  And…I know, this is an excessive description of the mountain, but I want you to understand that we aren’t talking about some hills, or a beautiful highway cutting through the mountains, or a slight incline and decent.  We’re talking about zig-zagged 25 to 30 degree incline in a narrow lane with no shoulders.  We’re talking about going up in second or third gear and coming down with your hand on the emergency break.  This is more like a roller coaster than a drive through the country.  Okay – roller coaster is an exaggeration.  But 25 to 30 degree inclined zig-zag is not.  (See the squiggly line on the map?)  

 

So we’re climbing every mountain and we’re almost to the top the road forks – up more or down a little.  We know we have to go up and over, so we go up.  I’ll tell you up front, that was the wrong way.  I am literally in the clouds – 1300 meters up.  My visibility is reducing and there is something on the ground by the side of the road…ice? Snow?  Yes.  I didn’t think it was possible, but we continue to climb to 1400+ meters.  Now I can’t see more than 10 feet in front of me, I’ve entered a small one-road) town and I’m debating turning around – I can’t go any higher up.  And guess what I find…a dead end.  Of course!  The scenery around us is being covered by a light icy snow.  Snow…ice…slippery roads…I’m on top of a freakin’ mountain – I can’t go down those slopes with the roads like this.

We turn around and resolve to go ask for directions at the green building which looked like a community center (or mosque).  Although I’d love to practice my Arabic, Paul has to do this one on his own.  It is pretty scandalous to be a woman driving a car with 2 men in it – so I’m going to let the men as the men where to go, while I quietly sit in the car with my head covered.  Before we get to the mosque a group of middle-aged Arab men appear out of the fog walking down the road.  They are happy as can be.  “Talg!  Talg!”  (Snow!) Obviously we aren’t the only ones shocked by the snow.  They point this way and that to show us the way out.  “You need a place to stay” one man offers.  Sweet, but I think we are going to push on to a real city.  It is freezing up here and we are on our way to a hotel with a sauna and hot baths.

As we slowly cross the mountain tops (without much up and down) I’m driving about 15mph.  I can’t see more than 5 feet in front of me now – but we’ve left that city and there is nothing around.  All of the sudden – a small orange caution triangle is propped up on a basketball sized ice block in my lane.  The car fishtails as I hit the brakes.  For the first time in my life, I pull the emergency brake.  We stop inches from the ice block.  We sit there for a long silent moment wondering what to do.  Move the block, drive around it, go back to that village.  Just as we decide to move the ice and continue on two men in florescent vests coming running at us through the fog, waving their arms and shouting something we couldn’t possible understand.  There is an accident ahead.  An emergency vehicle has hit a snow plow.  We can’t stay parked in the road – we’re in the middle of nowhere and the visibility is so low and the roads to bad that the next car coming will surely rear-end us.  We have to get around the accident (carefully, without hitting them or going off the road…my poor little Volvo).  Although the situation is pretty calm the men are frantically yelling “one minute, stani swai, wait, go, one minute, go, yella!”  We get past them slowly and carefully enter the next city.  We are getting lower in elevation so the weather and roads should be less severe the further we go.

We approach a village (only two main roads, but the biggest one on our short trip).  I remember driving through here before…there are some shops who can serve foreigners and there is a huge hill on the other side.  As we make the final descent into the city we meet a crowd of local men…pushing a car up a hill.  They are doing this all wrong.  Two kids are in flip flops, the car is full, the driver is a large man, no one has gloves on, their jackets are unzipped.  We just wait patiently on the side of the road – I’m not going down while they are fishtailing their way up.  Finally it is my turn on the hill.  The locals have to dig my tires out and push…but we get moving and come to a safe full stop at the bottom of the hill.  Locals (all men of course – the women a.) wouldn’t be out in these conditions and b.) wouldn’t be seen in public)…so locals come to us right away.  “ehna bidna… uh…maktab… willa…. uhh...shoot, how do you say hotel?....willa….beit.”  Apparently someone understood at least one of the words I said.  “Welcome.”  (Paul loves this part of the story.)  The only English word these men knew was “Welcome.”  And we knew enough about Arabic culture to know that “welcome” meant “Welcome to my house.  Come be my guest.”  “Bas…wen ana (but…where do I)…uhh…sayari (my car).”  Dang it!  I don’t know how to say put or leave or park!

 

Finally, a tall man with a red and white keffiyeh wrapped around his head walks up and saves us.  “Come to my house.”  Not only did he speak English, but he lived right where we happened to have stopped, and he had a parking spot!  As we parked the car all four of us zipped up our coats and Mafé and I re-wrapped our scarves around our heads…just in case.  “Welcome to Arab hospitality.  We will probably be here a while.”  I didn’t know how long we’d be there (4 hours), but I’d heard of Arab hospitality and I’d heard the Jordanians were the most hospitable of them all.  This adventure was about to prove that true.

We hurried inside and up a flight of stairs where we took off our shoes and left them at the entrance of the house.  One of his teenage sons eagerly followed us up and in the house.  We entered directly into a long hallway with three doors we could see and a curtain at the end.  We were quickly ushered into the first door on the left, a carpeted formal sitting room lined with formal couches.  Red velvet and gold dominated the room from the full-length (closed) window curtains to the wall hangings to the carpet.  On the coffee table were several small souvenirs, obviously from travels or gifts.  Like many houses in this part of the Middle East, it was made of cold concrete.  This part of the world is better equipped for warm summers than cold winters.  Lucky for us, they had a space heater which they brought into the room for us.  This was followed by the traditional coffee which is served from one teeny tiny cup and everyone takes their turn.  When his son finished serving us Mohammed thought he’d missed me and asked in Arabic if he’d remembered to serve “our daughter.”  Wow – 10 minutes into this and he is already calling me his daughter. 

Mohammed was a wonderful, funny and entertaining host.  He spoke English very well and had served as a UN Peacekeeper traveling around the world.  He showed us photos of his travels and all of the gifts his friends from around the world had given him.  He told us about life in Al-Qadisiyah and about Arab culture.  He talked to us about subjects that we date not ask about like his career and retirement, the huge families, and polygamy in Islam.  He told of his thoughts of becoming mayor and of the tribal/family politics of the town.  He even read to us from his English journal and showed us his favorite poems.  At one point Mafé and I were invited on a tour of the house.  Greg got up to follow, but luckily turned back as he was clearly not invited on the tour.  We saw the kitchen, the family room and the bedrooms.  Outside of the room we were in, there was no furniture except beds and floor pillows.  We later found out that because of the snow the pipes were frozen and there was no water…so we couldn’t use the toilet.  Instead, we used the hole in the floor (and washed our hands with bottled water).  On our tour, Mafé and I met his wife – this is why Greg wasn’t invited.  She didn’t speak much English but was very happy we were there.  Mohammed told us she was a great cook and showed us the crafts she does at home.

Back in the sitting room with Paul and Greg, we were all served tea and then this delicious warm milky drink with coconut and walnuts.  Paul thought he heard snow slushing outside as a car passed (meaning the road was open again).  We thought after the drink we’d on our way.  But no.  Mohammed continued to entertain us and told us more about Arab culture and hospitality.  About 2 hours into our visit Mohammed explained that: “Guests are a gift from God.  If a stranger shows up on your door unannounced, God is giving you an opportunity to serve Him.  You are to serve the guest for 3 days before you can even ask his name.”  I’d noticed that we hadn’t said a word about ourselves the entire time.  We introduced ourselves when we first entered the house, but he never asked where we were from or how we knew each other, or why in the world I was trying to drive over a mountain in the middle of a snow storm. 

He also explained how we were like prisoners trapped in that room.  We weren’t allowed to leave the room without being invited or asking permission, and if we left we had to be escorted.  We’d been there for nearly 3 hours and hadn’t noticed, but this had definitely been the case.  It was something cultural we’d just done, but Mohammed skillfully pointed it out. 

Then he said something that was really surreal.  He was talking about how we should travel and see the world and have adventure…”Just like the one you are having right now.  I know you’re very excited to tell all of your friends about this.”  My jaw dropped.  It was like magical realism or when you’re dreaming and you realize it is a dream.  Despite our best manners and trying to act like this was all totally normal and we were perfect diplomats, Mohammed knew that this was totally new and weird for us and that we were recording every little detail in our minds.  He knew that the first thing we’d do when we left would be to look at each other and say “Holy Crap!”  He knew that I’d be writing this. 

After apologizing for not serving us food (because there was no water), his son came in with an enormous tray of steaming hot food.  Mafé had said she wanted Arabic food and I don’t think it gets any more real than this.  We sat in a circle on the floor and ate with our hands.  When we asked how to eat the food (stuffed cabbage, a sour cream-like dairy and olives), Mohammed said that it didn’t matter, we could eat it however we wanted.  It was delicious…and warm. 

By the time we finished the meal we could hear cars going up and down the road outside.  We still had about 30 minutes left to drive to get to our hotel so, after about 20 minutes of chatting, we said we probably needed to get going.  Did I forget to mention that at least 3 times he invited us to stay the night there?  Although he sounded slightly offended that we were leaving, he said we could go…but after tea.  And then Mafé and I said goodbye to his wife (in the bedroom, where the guys couldn’t see her), and Paul and Greg saw the house and Mohammed’s facebook page. 

Just before we left we asked if we could take a picture with him.  We didn’t think you guys would believe us.  He said no (because he hadn’t washed his face that day bc of the frozen pipes), but sent us a photo by email a few days later.  We exchanged email addresses and bid him farewell.  Of all the places in the world to be stuck in a snow storm and spend 4 hours in a strangers house – this would be my choice.