You’ve had some really incredible experiences this past year. What has been one of your least favorite?
When I was in the Middle East, I had the opportunity to live in the Wadi Rum desert with a Bedouin family, a semi-nomadic population of Jordan. Known as the “desert dwellers” in Arabic, the Bedouins are one of Jordan’s most well-known ethnic groups and differ starkly in their customs from the rest of the country.
I was especially excited to learn from these more traditional, polygamous peoples, to live alongside them, to observe their ideas about love and marriage in real time. I arrived in the desert anticipating two full weeks without cell service, skipping out on Thanksgiving with my family back home to instead volunteer in their tourist camp as part of a work exchange.
Unfortunately, I quickly realized that the opportunity was not as advertised.
I was promised time with the family and an up-close, in-depth look at the Bedouin way of life. But my days were spent with the other European volunteers, making beds, cutting vegetables, and cleaning bathrooms. The Bedouins themselves only came out to the desert at night to welcome overnight tourists, occasionally stopping in during the day to check in on our tasks and the camp.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I don’t mind working hard, especially given that I was staying in the camp for free. But we were working 8-hour days with no actual contact with the local culture. Instead of an immersive exchange, it all started to feel a bit…exploitative.
At first, I dismissed these feelings, telling myself that I just had to give it some more time, a proper chance. The volunteers I had arrived with—a twenty-something Irish-Italian couple on holiday—cut their stay short and left. “I’m sorry we’re leaving you here, Matt,” the girl said to me, “but this really isn’t what we expected.”
Suddenly, it was just me and a more long-term volunteer from Germany (whose name now escapes me) left in the camp. We cleaned and cooked and scrubbed, just us two most days until the Bedouins returned each night with new tourists. In my off-hours, with no way to access the Internet or connect with the outside world, I watched movies and read books, occasionally climbing up the surrounding mountains to catch a sunset, staring off into a horizon of sand and watching as everything turned from orange to red. It was a nice, simple time, but left me wondering whether I was making any actual progress with my project.
One afternoon, as the German volunteer and I were folding bedsheets for a new group coming in, she mentioned to me off-hand that in certain months, she was left alone in the camp for days without anyone checking in on her. And that was it. I decided I had had enough; I wasn’t going to miss Thanksgiving with my family for this.
Determined but a bit nervous, I approached Salman—the son of the Bedouin family I had been in contact with—telling him that I was headed home. That I was not only leaving early from Wadi Rum, but also all of Jordan, because after 150 days on the road, I really missed my family. (Which was mostly true—I had indeed decided to leave Jordan early, but not before traversing the country for a couple more weeks.) After some initial disagreement, he told me that he understood, that he was disappointed, but ultimately wanted what was best for me. Relief washed over me. I looked forward to finally being able to get in touch with my parents after days without contact.
A couple of hours later, I was packed and ready to go, content with the knowledge that after serving dinner to this final group of tourists, I’d be leaving the desert to overnight in a nearby village before bussing the next morning to a new city. I stepped out of my hut. Salman, sitting out in the sun and smoking hookah, waved me over.
“Atila,” he said, calling me by the Arabic name they had given me, “I have been thinking about our talk.” He took another puff then, blowing clouds out into the arid air. “And I change my mind. You cannot leave.”
My stomach dropped. “Are you…serious..?”
“Yes, I am serious. We agree on two weeks, and I say no to other volunteers who want to come because you are here already. So you need to stay the full time you ask for—two weeks.”
Panic swelled inside of me. After all, I had no way to get in touch with anyone, surrounded by miles and miles of desert. I knew I was going back on our initial agreement, but Salman had no right to keep me anywhere I didn’t want to be. And if he could keep me at the camp against my will without anyone finding out, well, what else was he capable of?
Nope. I needed to leave. I quickly assessed my options; it would be a 3-4 hour trek through the desert to the closest village. But I would need enough light and water, and it was already late afternoon, so I didn’t have much time. I needed to act fast.
“Salman,” I said, looking into his eyes. “You can’t keep me here. I will pick up my bags and walk if I have to.”
Suddenly, he burst out laughing. I was beyond confused.
“Your face,” he said, “It was so funny.”
To this day, I still don’t know if Salman was truly joking, or if he realized I wasn’t going to put up with his shit and quickly shifted gears, pretending as if he was putting on a ruse the whole time.
Jordan was one of my absolute favorite countries I visited; I think I just got unlucky with Salman. But God knows I was grateful to leave Wadi Rum.