Cigarettes and Sweet Tea

It is early morning. I have just crossed into Jordan from Israel and I'm ready to haggle for the best price for my taxi to Petra, but only one taxi driver is waiting on the street outside the border. He leans against his battered sedan and nonchalantly smokes a cigarette.
“Petra?" he asks. "Seventy dinar."
I look around for other options, but the flat desert stretches all the way to the mountains with not a soul in sight, only a few lonely goats.
“Sixty?” I counter.
“Seventy dinar,” he repeats steadily.
I get in the car.
Instead of driving north to Petra, however, he heads south towards the city of Aqaba. I start to protest, but he just makes a quiet gesture with his hand.
“Soon, soon. Short detour.” He winds down the window to breathe out smoke, and the red heat of Jordan fills the car.
He slides to a halt in front of a tall white building and sits on the curb to make a cellphone call. A second car pulls up and more men get out, speaking in a river of rapid-fire Arabic.
Alarmed, I lean out the window and tap my watch, but the driver surprises me by jumping to his feet and running into the house, leaving me alone in the car. Surely there has been some grave misunderstanding. A moment later, he rushes out again, bearing an elegant silver tea set.
“So sorry,” he says, and bows deeply. “Perhaps you do not know that Petra is a restricted city. Most cars are not registered to go there. But I have called my friend and he is making a special trip here to take you in his taxi. In the meantime, please have tea with us. In Jordan, we offer tea to our guests to show them hospitality.”
The tea is dark and powerfully sweet. Despite the morning’s dry heat, it is surprisingly refreshing and tastes faintly of mint leaves. I sit with the driver and his friends, and we drink glass after glass. Just as my taxi pulls up, I pull out my journal and they argue heatedly before finally settling on the perfect Arabic word to teach me.
Shukran. Thank you.
It is one I will remember well.