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.
I recently travelled to the two thousand-year-old Nabatean city of Petra, and as we entered the narrow Siq that leads to the famous red rock monuments, our guide told us the story of Marguerite van Geldermalsen – a backpacker from New Zealand who met and fell in love with a local Bedouin in the 70's – informing us that Marguerite has a souvenir shop along the main path, and if we were lucky, we would be able to meet her, perhaps buy her book about her experiences; a book she would happily sign and inscribe for us. Turns out that Marguerite was at her stall that day, and it also turns out that while she would rather resignedly sell and sign her books for us tourists, she would much rather hawk the silver jewellery that her fellow Bedouin women make for the shop (she rather impatiently asked my husband if he didn't need a pair of silver cufflinks; he did not). As Marguerite's grandson sprawled on a chair nearby, scrolling through his iPhone, we persisted in buying Marguerite's book (while she grumbled to herself about accepting credit cards, “Why does everyone think I'd prefer a card to cash?”), and happily, it turns out to have been a delightful read. For a nonprofessional author, Marguerite's writing is clear and evocative, she manages to capture the dying days of a now vanished way of life, and most of all, she has crafted a fitting memorial for a man she loved; a man who died too young. Maybe not a perfect read for everyone, but in the context of my trip, Married to a Bedouin added a lot of colour to the black and white history I was learning.
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.Even rereading the early bits, it's hard to figure out just why Marguerite and Mohammad got married within two months of meeting one another (Because his friends and family kept teasing them? Because her tourist visa was about to run out?), but it seems undeniable that this was a love match; why else would a Western woman leave the comforts of (our notion of) civilisation to move to a cave, cook over an open fire, toilet behind a designated bush? The Bedouin community that Marguerite became a member of certainly helped to ease her path: the women fought over the privilege of sharing food with the young bride until she was ready to learn to make her own bread and balls of dried yogurt; the men brought her water and firewood; this was a close-knit and generous community that welcomed Marguerite into their fold. It was a coup for the community that Marguerite had trained as a nurse back in New Zealand – she was able to operate the often closed local clinic – and while she happily adopted the dress and customs and eventually the religion of the surrounding Muslims, Marguerite retained enough of her Westernised independence to join in (formerly all male) card games and to insist on sitting with her husband at gender-segregated gatherings. In a series of short and consistently interesting vignettes, Marguerite completely captures the way of life for the cave-dwelling Bedouin of Petra in the late 70's/early 80's, and that gives this the feeling of an important artifact: UNESCO officially declared Petra a World Heritage Site in 1985, and at that time, the Bedouin were moved into a nearby permanent village (and as a trade-off, given the sole right to open souvenir shops and other tourist ventures inside Petra).
As Married to a Bedouin ends, Marguerite describes her husband's early death from diabetes-related complications, and at the time of writing (2008), she and their three young adult children had left Petra:
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.I don't know what eventually brought Marguerite back to Petra – and I'm assuming that her grandson's presence at her shop indicates the return of at least one of her children, too – but she is there, selling her book and finely-made silver jewellery. I thoroughly enjoyed this read, and if you have the chance to buy a copy from Marguerite herself, and you don't want to be grumbled at, bring cash.
Bonus: Marguerite today -
