Wary of the Nomads

It'll get you out of the slipperiest of sands, we glumly recalled the rental rep telling Dad. Yet here we were, stuck in the sand and the GMC van could not get us out. I stepped out of the vehicle and sank into the desert knee deep. This was before cell phones, so calling for help was out of the option.

Shimmering golden sand melded with a bright blue sky, clear as could be, and nothing else, not even a rock or a cactus was in view. We tried to push the van out, but driving just sunk the van deeper.

In the silence of the noon heat, we heard the roar of a pick up truck. It was a bedouin man. We'd been warned about the bedouin tribes in this area, they weren't always the friendliest, and here was one, speeding his way towards us.

He circled our van twice and impending doom music started to play in my head. He stopped with a screech and lots of dust. As it cleared, he opened his door and walked towards us. It was all very movie like, and we were all shifting nervously. The bedouin can be unpredictable, the rental rep had told us, stay away from them.

He scratched his head glistening with sweat and after a pause asked, ma moshkila? Warily, Dad said, 'sayara' and motioned at the stuck van. He came closer, peered at the stuck rear wheels, walked back to his truck, and drove away without a word. I was simultaneously relieved he didn't hurt us and bewildered that he left us.

We were still stuck in the sand.

So we kicked the car, cursed our luck and sat inside racking our heads for a solution. Then there was the roar of a pick up truck.

He stopped his truck behind our van and stepped out with a rifle. We froze. He slung the rifle on his shoulder and pulled out a coil of heavy silver chain. Was he going to tie us all up and kill us? And why didn't he say anything?

He trudged over and wrapped the chain around the trailer hitch of the van. Not only was he going to kill us, he would take the van too. Then he wrapped the other end of the chain around his truck hitch and the rifle he tossed landed with a clatter in the truck. Wait what?

He motioned to Dad to get into the car and got into his truck. With a roar, the powerful engine drove ahead. The sound echoed in the silence. Within seconds, our van kicked up a dust storm and popped out. As the dust settled, we heard the clank of the chain he unwrapped and put away. He drove the truck close to us, handed me a basket of shawarmas, and left. No prose, just deeds.

The famous bedouin generosity, they call it.