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388 pages
First published January 1, 2006
Much, much later, when they couldn't dance or joke any more, a group of Mohammad's friends escorted us back to our cave. They didn't stop singing all the way; their words reverberated around the basin, echoing from the mountain walls that surrounded us. It had been a long wedding and very successful from Mohammad's point of view, but for me, I was just happy to have him to myself at last.
We reached a plateau of iron-red rock and had a short rest with our legs dangling over the drop-edge. Petra stretched below us like an inhabited map. We could see the rock outcrop of our cave and the tent set up for our wedding. We could see girls driving donkeys laden with jerry-cans, goatherds following flocks down rock steps, wood gatherers, horsemen riding lazily and souvenir sellers � we could see the Bedouin heading home. The once nomadic Bedouin of whose tribe I was about to become a part.
I might go back and see if I can find a Petra I can live in without Mohammad. I know that it is still an exciting place to be. The Bedouin have settled into Umm Sayhoon, but by day they inhabit the ruins of Petra. They bring them back to life � using donkeys to take tourists to the High Place and Monastery, camels to get them to Wadi Sabra and Jabal Haroon, and almost any means at all to get them into the shade for a glass of mint tea. And, if there's one happening, they invite them with typical enthusiastic hospitality back up to their village for a Bedouin Wedding. But I wasn't in Petra for the mountains or history � nor even for the culture. Without Mohammad to hold me, I am no longer married to a Bedouin and, despite all the things we have accumulated, I have become a nomad once again.