Sneaking into Petra, or, Nothing is Free

I saw Petra for free, snuck in the back route on donkeyback swaddled and clothed like a Bedouin woman. I rode a donkey, a mule, and a camel that day—all for the first time. I drank more Bedouin tea than I can remember, met more people than I can remember, and watched my host free climb the monastery, the largest and tallest tomb face in the compound of Petra.

Does it sound like I’m bragging? I suppose I am, just a little bit, but the truth is that I wish I had just paid like everyone else. For though I laughed on muleback up 800 steps to a view of Petra and heard Bedouin flute played live in the great tomb, I also realized that nothing is free and that my proclivity to trust people and to believe what they say is naive bordering on stupid.

It started with a very fucked up night involving,  if I boil the situation down to bare bones, a man in love with his younger paid male companion, who in turn had been hitting on me all evening and wanted to share my bed. It involved two Bedouin cousins who were hosting our unhappy triangle in their bug-riddled small flat and who offered me an oil massage and asked me to come to them, both of them, in the middle of the night. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

The next morning (did I just skip over an eventful night? Yes. Yes, I did.) I tried to make it clear to the cousins that I wasn’t interested in their oft-repeated offer.

“I’m sleeping alone tonight,” I said, emphasizing my point by booking a room at a local guesthouse.

“I’m sleeping alone tonight,” I repeated later when they made it clear that they would both like to sleep with me that night. But, and here’s perhaps the crux of the problem, I smiled as I said it. As I so often do, I smiled while I said no. But then, I’m used to people doing me the courtesy of taking me at my word.

Because of ensuing drama between the older man and his paid companion, a group expedition into Petra became, quite unexpectedly, an uncomfortable threesome consisting of me and the Bedouin cousins. They said they could get me, through a back route, into Petra on donkeyback, that they were happy to show me around, that it really was no trouble. So I said “Fuck it,” and left my friends to their arguing and drama and headed into the desert with the cousins.

The ground was littered with small rocks, with pebbles, with sand. If I had been walking, I would have needed to watch my footing carefully. But I was on donkeyback, and after imagining quite vividly what might happen to me if the donkey stumbled, I had a reassuring thought. People in this area had been using donkeys for, oh, let’s say thousands of years. If they trusted the donkey, surely I could too. So I relaxed and leaned back (figuratively and literally) and began to enjoy the view.

The landscape was beautiful and desolate, with pink-tinged rock faces that hid any sign of habitation. But the cousins pointed out carvings and structures in the surrounding cliffs, and suddenly, like that moment when you finally squint just so and a 3-D picture snaps into place, all I could see around me were the too-regular outlines of man-made dwellings and the flourishes of decorative chiseling. Just as I began to enjoy the view and could see Petra approaching, the cousins decided it was time to take a break. We pulled blankets out of the saddlebags and arranged a spot in the shadow of a tomb carved in the cliff face. Then the cousins pulled a bottle of Sprite and a bottle of gin out as well. Oh good, I thought with a grimace, 2:00 p.m. does seem like the perfect time to begin drinking.

The drinks flowed copiously, though not into my cup. An hour later, after three-quarters of the gin bottle was empty, the younger cousin, Hamdu, began his seduction of me in earnest. He offered me another massage (which appears to be a universal allusion to sex) and when his older cousin, Saleh, left to pee, Hamdu tried to kiss me. He pulled me toward him despite my protestations and when I realized he had no intention of letting me go, I pushed against his chest with my arms extended and my elbows locked.

“I don’t want to kiss you. I told you I’m not interested. I tried to be clear,” I said softly, despite my anger.

“Why are you wasting my time? You’re flirting with me and now you say you don’t want it?” He was angry and made no attempt to be polite.

Saleh returned before I could reply and witnessed some of what transpired.

“Don’t worry about Hadmu,” he told me. “We’ll leave him here to drink while we go to Petra and I show you everything. And you can trust me; I never give something to a woman unless she wants it. I don’t need to force anything.”

“Okay,” I said because I did believe him. It was his cousin whom I felt uncomfortable around, but still, I added for good measure, “I’m sleeping alone tonight.”

So I got back on the donkey and Saleh and I left together for Petra. After five minutes, I could see the huge and sprawling compound before us. I tried to orient myself, as we had come in through a side route. Ahead of me was a small stadium of sorts, immediately to the left was a large tomb, and to my right, down a sharp slope, was a colonnaded street and hippodrome.

Saleh ducked into the nearby tomb and spoke to a man he identified as another cousin. I was impatient to begin exploring, but felt compelled to wait, to stick to Saleh’s side, lest a ticket checker come around. While I waited, Saleh played his flute and sang in the resonant and vaulted area inside the tomb. At first I thought he was singing a traditional Bedouin song, but then I caught snippets of the words.

“Look at all the tourists,” he sang, his voice trilling. “I wish they would fuck off.” His was a wavering nasal voice and resonated eerily throughout the high-ceilinged tomb.

I was tired of waiting. I’d been waiting now for hours. “Yalla. Let’s go.”

“Yalla,” Saleh agreed.

My tour of Petra began in earnest—a whirlwind of stone steps and impossibly large carved structures built an inconceivably long time ago. I met innumerable cousins, one of whom let me ride his camel, while another gave me sugary dark black tea. Soon we were at the monastery, one of the highest points in Petra, and I watched in awe as Saleh nimbly climbed up the structure without rope, without gear, without any equipment.

I stood at the base of the monastery with dozens of other tourists, our necks all craned uncomfortably to watch Saleh scale the carved dome roof and jump from parapet to parapet hundreds of feet in the air.

Next we traversed, me still on donkeyback, to one of the highest points in Petra, a point from which I could see no other tourists, only the rocky peaks of gray and maroon hills. It was here that Saleh began to speak vaguely about the magic of Bedouin energy and about giving me Bedouin energy. And I, in my limitless naïveté, thought he was referring to some kind of reiki. When he stuck his tongue in my mouth, I realized that Bedouin energy was yet another allusion to sex.

“I’m so stupid,” I said as Saleh and I sat meters apart. I had made it clear that I didn’t want his “energy” and, in fairness to him, once I physically pushed him away, he left me alone. He was sulking though and unhappy as we sat there, waiting for Petra to empty and the guards to clear out so we could sneak out the same way we had snuck in.

I did feel stupid at that moment, but more than that, I dearly felt my dependence on Saleh. I wanted to placate him. Unless I wanted to get caught by the Petra security guards, it seemed that I was dependant on him to get out, to get back to the town of Wadi Musa and to my hostel.

“I’m so stupid,” I repeated, realizing that I had turned a blind eye to my good sense. I had gotten caught up in my greed for adventure, in the lure of riding a donkey through the setting of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

Saleh and I barely spoke as we waited for the sun to creep low and the tourists and guards to head for the exit. Minutes passed, then half an hour. I considered just walking out and paying the $80 ticket if I got caught, but I wondered if that would be the only repercussion. Could I be jailed for sneaking into Petra? It seemed unlikely, but did I really want to find out? Spending time in a foreign jail is high on the list of things that scare me.

Finally we started moving, slowly, back to the Bedouin village we’d started from.Tired of walking, Saleh climbed on the donkey behind me. The donkey’s bouncing, jerking pace put Saleh and I into close contact. Too close; I could feel his erection pressed against me. I quickly climbed off, happy to stretch my legs and to walk the rest of the way. We stopped one last time to watch the orange sun slink behind rosy cliffs, but I couldn’t enjoy the beauty of the view. I wanted to be anywhere else; I wanted to be alone.

From the Bedouin village I made it back to Wadi Musa and back to my hostel, but the rush of relief I expected never came. My body was still tensed with stress and my mind wouldn’t clear. I played over my mistakes on a repeated, inarticulate loop in my mind. And I struggled with the ramifications of the day. It was tempting to crawl inside myself, to avoid talking to strangers, to never smile.

But strangers often approached me, often with true offers of hospitality. So how could I differentiate those genuine offers from the disguised solicitations for sex? I had tried honesty; that didn’t seem to work. Distressingly, my instinct for whom I could trust seemed to be failing me.

I had no answers then and I have no answers now. I am trying to temper my openness with reserve, with caution. But my delight in meeting people and my lust for adventure usually wins out. Maybe that’s for the best. After all, bad memories fade and all that remains is a good story—a story of sneaking into Petra on donkeyback swaddled like a Bedouin woman.

Humus for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

Consider this the great humus wrap-up post, in which I look back with nostalgia on humus I ate in Jordan and Turkey. As I write this in Thailand, I try not to think of how long it will be until I taste this most perfect of foods again.

A full breakfast spread including halwa, fateh humus, shatta, and pickled cauliflower and turnips

Let’s start with humus for breakfast in Amman, Jordan. While there, I was introduced to a popular choice for Friday morning breakfast (Friday being the beginning of the weekend in the Arab world), fateh humus. Fateh is a lighter, silkier version of humus. It is the only humus which you are expected to eat with a spoon (of course, this never stopped me from digging right in. My appetite for bread is limited, while my appetite for humus is not.). One reason for this expectation is that fateh humus is prepared using bread and is not topped with oil. A dish topped with olive oil is made for dipping because the bread soaks up the excess oil.

Fateh is made by soaking chunks of day-old bread in the hot chickpea-cooking liquid. This softened bread is then mashed with a few large spoonfuls of humus then, depending on the chef, extra tahini and lemon juice might be added to the mixture. The smooth fateh is then topped with crushed green peppers, whole chickpeas, and roasted local almonds. Because of the chickpea-infused liquid, fateh is always made to order and served warm. Its texture is softer and lighter than traditional humus—silky might be the most fitting adjective—but, as I found out after being unable to stop eating, it will still fill you up for the entire day.

A lunch of humus with a simple tomato cucumber salad, bread, some spicy pickled peppers, green onions, and mint

Now let’s jump to lunch and to another country—Turkey. Despite what you may have heard, Turkey is not known for its humus and many Turks have no idea what it is or how to make it. So I was excited when I took a trip with my lovely mother to Antakya (also know as Hatay or Antioch) near the border with Syria. Antakya is know for its delicious Arabic-inspired cuisine and we made sure to sample that cuisine at every turn.

This was my favorite humus of the trip. It was topped with spicy red pepper flakes (which Antakya is famous for), fresh tomatoes, parsley, olive oil, cumin, sweet red peppers, and pickled eggplant.

Cevizli Biber

The cuisine in Antakya, despite its obvious Arabic influence, still maintains strong Turkish flavors.  Case in point is the above dish, cevizli biber, which is a paste made from walnuts and spicy salça (red pepper paste). It is delightfully fiery, but also rich and sweet from the addition of the walnuts.

In Antakya, it is common to find signs advertising baklacı and humusçı. In Turkish, the –ci ending denotes a profession and thus can be added to any noun, for example çiçek means flower and çiçekçi is a florist. So a baklacı is someone who specializes in making bakla, a dip of fava beans,  and a humusçı is someone who specializes in making humus. So when my mother and I went looking for our last meal in Antakya, we simply followed the signs and they led us directly to humus.

Humus topped with tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, parsley, olive oil, and spicy red pepper flakes

When I first started making humus myself (of course I know how to make humus as it pretty much has its own place in the vegan food pyramid), I became enthralled with the endless varieties and each time I went into the kitchen tried to push the envelope further. What started innocently as roasted red pepper humus soon morphed into chocolate dessert humus. But it wasn’t until recently, until Lebanon and Jordan and south-central Turkey that I came to appreciate the perfection of simple humus. It’s amazing how six ingredients can, at the hands of a master or usta, transform into something sublime.

In the Kitchen: Patata Tahineh and Mu’ajanat with Jamilah

In Amman, my host’s mother, despite trying to good-naturedly convince me to eat some chicken, often cooked entire meals of the most delicious vegan dishes. Jamilah’s favorite thing to say to me was “Kuli! Kuli!” (Eat!) and in response to her command, my favorite thing to say to her was “Zeki!” (Delicious!). And it’s true. Everything she made was so fresh and delicious that I didn’t want to stop eating.

I wish I had spent more time in her kitchen, simply watching her cook. She made a dish of stewed greens straight from her garden and a dip of tomatoes and zucchini which I still think about now. I was fortunate, however, to get a few pictures and a recipe during my brief time in Amman.

Patata Tahineh

This simple and sublime dish tastes remarkably like humus but comes together without a blender and, with no need to soak chickpeas, in considerably less time.

4 medium potatoes

2 cloves garlic

1 tsp salt

juice from 1.5 lemons

1/3 cup tahini

olive oil (for garnish)

parsley (for garnish)

Boil, bake, or microwave the potatoes until cooked. In the meantime, using a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic and salt together until they form a smooth paste (the addition of salt makes this process easy and fast). Mash the cooked potatoes by hand, then add the garlic, salt, and lemon juice. Mix in the tahini. Garnish with a squeeze of lemon juice, drizzle of olive oil, and chopped fresh parsley. Serve with fresh bread for dipping.

Jamilah also served her patata tahineh with a pickle her mother had made called makdous. Makdous is made from little eggplants that have been stuffed with walnuts and shatta and preserved in olive oil.

Shatta is an important part of Jordanian cuisine, and Jamilah always had a bowl fermenting in her kitchen. Shatta is made from a mix of sweet and spicy red peppers which are mixed together and allowed to ferment for one month. You can see a little bowl of shatta in the first picture in the upper right-hand corner.

Mu’ajanat

On my last night in Amman, before I hitchhiked south to Aqaba and Petra and Wadi Rum, Jamilah made a traditional and naturally vegan mu’ajanat. Mu’ajanat refers to a wide range of savory pastries and that evening she made two kinds—one stuffed with cheese and one stuffed with spinach.

 

She made the dough with whole wheat flour, which is apparently a traditional recipe not a new-fangled, inspired-by-the-resurgence-of-whole-foods approach. She then filled the dough with a mix of spinach and onions and added shatta to a few as well.

She then formed them into triangles and baked the mu’ajanat until they were just brown and crispy. Jamilah made a pot of Jordanian-style black tea, which is brewed with fresh mint, as it is traditional to drink tea while eating mu’ajanat.

The next step was simple. “Kuli! Kuli!” Jamilah commanded and I was happy to comply.  As with everything she made, these mu’ajanat (especially the ones with added shatta) were truly zeki.

Humus, Fuul, Falafel. The Best in Jordan

I’m going to skip the intro and dive right in. My first meal at Hashem was the best restaurant meal I ate in Jordan. I went with my host in Amman, Moe, who told me he jumped at any excuse to eat at there, so on my first full day in Jordan, we headed downtown for a late breakfast.

Much has been written about the humble appearance of Hashem. Yes, it is located in an alley, and yes, you will sit at a plastic table in plastic chairs. But honestly, I didn’t notice any of that. What I did notice was a constant stream of customers from all demographics. As any traveling eater can tell you, a busy restaurant frequented by locals is a sure sign of delicious food to come.

Like so many great eateries, Hashem only does a few things—humus, fuul, two kinds of falafel—but those few things they do perfectly. Not ones to balk at the idea of a humus-filled breakfast, Moe and I ordered a dish of humus, fuul, and a sampling of both kinds of falafel—the small plain and the large mahshy falafel which were stuffed with grilled onions.

The food arrived within two minutes, accompanied by fresh pillowy flatbread and a plate of ripe tomatoes, mint, and raw onions. The pita was hot, made specially for Hashem just across the street, and brought over every few minutes. Even the tomatoes were perfect—bursting with flavor.

It was too much food. Too much food! But I couldn’t stop eating. I dipped into the humus. “This is the best humus I’ve ever had!” I remarked to Moe, a silly grin plastered on my face. Then I tasted the mahshy falafel. “What! This is the best falafel I’ve ever had!” My grin widened. I dipped the pita again and again, trying to master the fine art of scooping bread into humus without letting the humus slide off. I ate every possible permutation I could think of—fuul and/or humus with tomatoes, with falafel, with shatta (a pickled spicy red pepper sauce)—trying to find the perfect combination. I never could decide which was most delicious, so I spent the entire meal experimenting and combining and sampling and comparing.

And then, stuffed beyond reason and happy as ccould be, I didn’t eat again for the rest of the day.

Humus topped with olive oil and a mix of fresh lemon juice and crushed, pounded green peppers

More Info:

Hashem is no secret. The king Abdullah himself sometimes brings his family to dine at Hashem. Anyone downtown can point you in the right direction, but you can find directions here and read a great description of breaking fast at Hashem here. Expect to pay no more than 2 JD (less than $3) per person for a very, very filling meal.

As far as I could tell, everything here was vegetarian. Vegan, in fact. So order as much of the humus, fuul, falafel, and french fries as your heart desires!

Magical Za’atar

My first time tasting za’atar was in Tripoli, Lebanon when Walid, my self-elected host in the city, took me to eat a freshly baked za’atar man’oushe. Man’oushe is a flatbread baked in a special oven and topped with various odds and ends—cheese, meat, tomatoes, and in the only vegan case, a paste of za’atar mixed with olive oil. Now, I don’t normally eat much bread, preferring instead to fill up my stomach with veggies, fruits, nuts, and legumes, but after two bites of the za’atar man’oushe I was hooked. The bread was like the perfect artisan pizza dough—crispy but with soft, pillowy pockets and air bubbles—and the za’atar was an explosion of flavor unlike anything I’d ever eaten before—savory, herby, salty, with a bite of citrus.

What exactly is za’atar? Magic. How else can I explain its deliciousness and its myriad applications? Magic.

Apparently, it also refers to both a fresh wild herb and the dried mix commonly found throughout the Middle East (you can read more about it here and here and here). It often contains some herbs from the thyme family, sesame seeds, salt, and sumac, but every woman is said to have her own fiercely guarded za’atar recipe and every region has a slightly different take on the mixture.

From left to right: Jordanian, Lebanese, and Syrian varieties of za’atar

Knowing I would need more za’atar in my life, I bought three different kinds when I was in Beirut. According to the store owner, each kind is popular in a different country—the dark green is from Jordan, the light green from Lebanon, and the brown from Syria. They each taste subtly different. The Syrian za’atar has hints of cumin and a more hevily spiced flavor, while the Jordanian za’atar tastes more green, more herby, and the Lebanese variety is a bit more sour and nutty.

I’ve been cooking with the za’atar, adding the mixture to roasted veggies and beans, dipping fresh bread into olive oil then the za’atar. But I still think longingly of that first man’oushe I tried in Tripoli—a first taste of magic.

Bedouin-Style Oud in Petra

When Abdullah approached me as I walked toward the cliffs near Petra in Jordan, I just wanted to be alone. I was tired of smalltalk, tired of being hit on, and tired of the energy required to exert myself. But I didn't want to close myself off to anyone or anything. I reminded myself that just because yesterday had been a shit day shouldn't mean that I retreat into myself and ignore the world. So I chatted with Abdullah and when he invited me for a drink, I joined him. He then joined me as I walked through the rocky terrain though it soon became clear that he was more interested in sitting and drinking gin and telling stupid jokes just to see me smile.

I soon tired of his company and his alcohol-loosened behavior towards me, but he spotted some friends of his--five Bedouin men drinking and singing in a cave--and we joined in. I couldn't resist the siren call of the music.

A master oud player, Isa, explained to me that Bedouin-style oud is very similar to the Arabic-style and he demonstrated some basic techniques. Soon he was playing a popular old song and everyone was singing and clapping along.

Isa made up one or two verses about me, and we all smiled and laughed and danced, but through it all I couldn't quite stomach the sheer amount of liquor being consumed. ("Tea is Bedouin whiskey," is a common saying in Petra. I'm inclined to say that in Petra at least, whiskey is the Bedouin whiskey.)

As I left, Abdullah bade me a sloppy and prolonged goodbye, speckled with pleas to see me again and anger at my refusal. And though I yet again felt exhausted by the interaction, the joyous music and singing buoyed me through and the strain's of Isa's oud lingered with me.

A Stolen Wallet, a Missing Condom, and a Notorious Criminal.

Downtown Amman looks like no other downtown I've ever seen. It is a mix of Roman and pre-Roman ruins, narrow streets, cheap clothing vendors, portable carts selling seasonal fruit (currently green almonds and strawberries), and sidewalks crowded with fully covered women, men wearing the red and white Palestinian-style headscarf, and a sprinkling of tourists. I walked through this jumble of people, greeted every few minutes by a friendly, “Welcome to Jordan!” to which I always smiled in return. I made my way past the old Hussein mosque and into a maze of narrow backstreets filled with fruit and vegetable sellers. There I spotted a man selling Jordanian sweets from a portable wheeled cart and one of the sweets caught my eye—a croquant-like bar of sesame and peanuts. I stopped to ask for one and we began to chat in a mix of English and my very limited Arabic. “You speak Arabic?” “Hafif, schwey.” He asked me to eat my sweet there with him and we continued our conversation. As we talked, someone bumped into me and so we moved the cart a little ways down the sidewalk. As I reached for my wallet to pay, the sweet seller insisted that it was free. Touched, I thanked him warmly and continued walking down the street.

A View of Downtown Amman

As I walked away, I reached into my bag to get my sunglasses and quickly realized my wallet was gone. I ran my hand through my entire bag again. No wallet. I had just been to the ATM because I needed money for my Thai visa and had about 230 JD ($328), as well as my ATM, credit card and drivers license in my wallet. In a little surge of embarrassment I realized I had a spare condom in there as well. Then I remembered that someone had bumped me from behind, jostling me and my purse and I immediately knew what had happened. I doubled back to the seller to ask if he had seen anything. Surely the thief could not have gotten far. I managed to explain that my money was stolen and the sweet seller's first reaction was to proclaim it wasn't him. I told him I knew that, but was just wondering if he saw anything. He made it clear that he hadn't and as I stood there, unsure of what to do next, he offered me, despite my strenuous objections, 5 JD so I could at least catch a taxi. I called my host, Mohammed, told him what had happened, and found that he was now on his way downtown. We agreed to meet at Hussein mosque. I thanked the sweet seller again then walked toward the mosque to wait for Mohammed.

Shortly after, a man approached me and told me that he had seen what happened—he saw my wallet being stolen. It was the man behind me, the galabeeyah seller, he said. I should go immediately to the police and tell them what had happened, and he pointed me in the right direction. He had been scared to tell me before because he didn't want the thief to make trouble for him. A minute later, another man approached me and said essentially the same thing. He had seen the galabeeyah seller take my wallet from my bag and he advised that I go to the police; he would accompany me but wouldn't make a formal complaint because he was afraid of the repercussions from the thief and the thief's well-connected family. “I hate to see this in my country,” he said, explaining why he had immediately come to me. “But I know who did it, and the man is a well-known thief.”

When Mohammed arrived he was steely and determined, upset that this had happened to me, but completely focused on resolving the problem. We went quickly to the police station—just a five minutes' walk away and were quickly ushered into the chief's personal office. Mohammed explained everything that had happened in rapid Arabic and when he finished, the chief asked me to explain. I recounted everything and soon a few police officers were sent to retrieve the galabeeyah seller and bring him in for questioning.

A covertly snapped photo of the police station

The chief of police, Colonel Alquran, spoke perfect, unaccented English. He was handsome and trim and carried himself with authority and confidence. I felt relaxed in his office; I felt in good hands. He asked what action I wanted to take and I explained that I simply wanted my wallet back; I had no desire for retribution. “Officially, we have no witnesses,” the colonel said, though he had spoken to the second witness who approached me. “No one wants to make an official complaint because they are worried about what might happen to them.” I assured him that I understood completely. “So you will make an official complaint against this man, explaining that you have reason to believe he stole your wallet, you felt him bump into you, and a few people told you it was he. You naturally can't remember much about these witnesses—where they work, their names, what they look like. Okay?” I agreed.

I hadn't gotten a good look at the galabeeyah seller, but within fifteen minutes of our arrival at the station, a man was brought into the Col. Alquran's office. Mohammed and I left the room for a few minutes, and as we walked back in, the seller spoke to me angrily in Arabic, asking me, “Why do you accuse me? Have you ever seen me before?” His question planted a seed of doubt. I didn't recognize him. Maybe he was the wrong man.

“Bad news,” the chief told us. “The man denies everything even though I told him that you didn't want to sue him; you just want your wallet back. Now negotiation is over and you will fill out the paperwork to make a formal complaint.” I could see he was disappointed. A formal complaint meant court visits, meant weeks of trial and paperwork until I could potentially see my money, my credit cards, my ID again.

But I still felt in competent hands. Mohammed told me about the last time he had been in a police station. His friend's car had been stolen in Amman and they went to report the theft. Three weeks later, the car was found near the Dead Sea, over 100 km away. A six on the license plate had been changed into a nine—a feat possible in Arabic—but the police had tracked the car down nonetheless.

As I debated aloud whether I should get to a computer to cancel my credit card immediately, I babbled something that one of the witnesses had told me. He had mentioned the galabeeyah seller's brother, implied he might be involved somehow. The colonel's face and demeanor immediately changed. He made a call, then turned to me. “We might get your wallet today after all. This man's brother is a well-known criminal, but he is also my eye. He provides information for me. He'll come here and I think he might be able to convince his brother that it would be best for him to return your wallet.”

The brother soon arrived—a muscular and tenacious man who spoke only to the chief and never once looked at me. I didn't know where to direct my eyes. If I stared at the brother, would he think I was being confrontational? If I didn't make eye contact, would he think I was a coward? I focused my attention on the chief instead. They spoke and though I couldn't understand what was said, I was again impressed by Colonel Alquran. His manner was strong, but fair. He spoke evenly and smiled once or twice, all without losing his authority or gravitas.

The brother left to try to find my wallet, charging out of the room like a bulldog. The chief and Mohammed seemed confident of success. When the brother returned empty handed, my heart sank. I had gotten my hopes up. But he raised his shirt and there I saw, tucked into his pants, my primary-colored Laotian wallet. He handed it over and the chief's assistant began to look through it thoroughly. My stomach churned as I remembered the condom stashed away in the back pocket. I leapt out of my chair and crossed the room, but I was too late. The assistant had opened and was searching through the zippered pocket. He emptied everything out, money, credit card, ATM card, drivers license, papers, receipts. I shuffled through them. Where was the condom? Everything was there except my emergency condom.

The mix of emotions I felt then was quite a cocktail. I was happy to have my wallet back, impressed at the efficiency of the police force, relieved the condom was not turned out on the chief's desk for all to see, and confused. Mainly confused as to what kind of a thief would have the delicacy to remove the condom before returning my wallet to the police, where many eyes—conservative male eyes—would ogle it.

Colonel Alquran explained that the galabeeyah seller and his brother had claimed to have seen the wallet being stolen and found it, but didn't know who the thief was. They were happy to return it to its rightful owner. This was the end of the matter. There was to be no paperwork because officially nothing had happened. Officially, my wallet had never been stolen.

The colonel gave me his phone number before we left, saying if I had any more problems, I should call him. He advised me to be careful, to carry less money, and to leave my valuables somewhere secure. All good, common-sense advice which I fully intend to follow. Until I become complacent and lazy again.

There was one last thing I wanted to do before we left downtown Amman, so Mohammed and I walked toward the Hussein mosque. I quickly spotted the sweet seller and thanked him for his kindness, Mohammed explaining that my wallet had been returned and that I was grateful for his generosity, but wanted to return his money as I really didn't need it. “Shukran,” I said. “Ma'a salaama.”

Jordanian sweets

Mohammed and I walked away and I thought how strange it was. Only two hours ago I had been in this same place. Two hours ago I had walked down this street, my purse full, my heart light. And here I was again, purse full, heart light. It was almost as if nothing had happened—nothing had changed. Well, that wasn't entirely true. I now walked with my purse in front of me, clutched in my hand.