Like Fallen Beads -- Atiq's Wadi Rum not-so-short story

I'll now try posting my 14,000-word true story of unrequited love in the desert of Jordan.

Will do this in sections to facilitate quoting in replies. This is an experiment; not sure if word limits will get in the way. I think it will take me a while to paste it all in. To anyone reading this as I post: please wait til I have pasted in the last paragraph before posting replies. Thank you!

The entire story may be downloaded as a Word doc at http://dahabmassage.com/pers/Like%20Fallen%20Beads.doc

Like Fallen Beads
copyright 2009 Atiq Zabinski


Wadi Rum is an immense desert valley in South Jordan, renowned for its beauty and its historical significance as T. E. Lawrence’s operations in the Arab Revolt of 1917-18. It is one of Jordan’s top tourist attractions, along with Petra and the Dead Sea.

CouchSurfing.org is “a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit.” It enables connections between travelers and their local hosts, and the organization of meetings of travelers and locals. Members have profiles stating whether they are traveling, wish to host or meet travelers, and leave references for each other based on their experiences.

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Saturday, November 14th. My interview today with the Dead Sea Holiday Inn just drove another nail in the coffin of the idea of my staying in Jordan. I need to call the woman back and cancel the followup interview I numbly agreed to while I took in the shockingly low offer.

My phone needs charging, and I'll grab a bit of electricity at Robin's before I vacate her place. She has other people staying over tonight, and so my time crashing here is coming to its end. Seems there's too little time to see whether the snuggles could turn into anything more serious, what with my feeling no other incentive to remain in the country and all. You can't ask a woman to give you a reason to settle in a country, especially not when she hasn't given you a kiss more substantial than the X's at the bottom of a text message.

The sun has already set and only now have I started looking for the next couch to surf. If nothing comes through, I can always go back to the 5 dinar dorm room at the Adha hotel. I have to ask myself, of the Couch Surfers I've met here in Amman, who do I honestly want to get to know better and spend time with tonight, and how big a factor in my motivation to couch surf is the desire to save the 5 dinars?

At first Yousouf is the only one I can think of, but he has other guests tonight, too. Maybe another night, he offers. Inshallah, would love to, will keep in touch. I say nothing about being a hair away from leaving the country.

“OK”, I say, “Hotel Adha it is.” Robin agrees that sometimes when traveling it's best to be alone.

Then I think of Skylar and Elke, the hippie couple from Amsterdam. I have their numbers from the Couch Surfing meeting last week where I almost talked them into hopping on a bus with me to join Amanda in Wadi Rum. I've never looked at their profiles and I don't even know if they host, but here at least are two people in the community whose company I think I'd enjoy more of, and there's no harm in trying.

“Atiq! Nice to hear from you. How was the desert?”

“I still haven't gone. I was on the bus when Amanda called and asked if I minded if we went to Aqaba instead, and I said OK.”

"That's funny! I like that you can go with the flow and change your plans quickly. Well, if you still want to go to Wadi Rum, then we can still take that trip together."

"I'd love to. And now we can do it the way we want to, and take a few days for it."

"Beautiful! Let me know when you want to go."

"Will do! It should be soon. But right now I have a favor to ask of you. Can I crash with you and Elke tonight?”

“Oh, I think that would be great. Let me check with Elke and call you back. I'm sure she'll be happy, but I have to ask, you know.”

It is Elke who calls me the next minute, warm, welcoming, and doing the duty of the one better at giving directions in English. I take a taxi up the steep streets of Jebel al-Ashrafiyah to the Armenian Church, and from there I call Elke to be led the way home.

Elke, tall with thick blond dreadlocks tied back in a headscarf, shaped like an Earth goddess, greets me with a hug. Around the corner a vacant lot exposes a stellar view of the lights blanketing the hills of nighttime Amman. We turn down a staircase of irregular stone slabs and turn again into a street like an alley, buildings perched in rows on the sloping hillside. Between two houses she opens a fence and we make yet one more turn down a staircase to a little patio. Their place is tucked in below their landlord's, small, cozy, protected.

“Welcome home!” Skylar rises from a plastic chair, tall and thin with bright blue eyes, his blond hair flowing thick in his beard, short and straight on the sides as if growing in from a Mohawk, and crowning him on top with a pile of curls. He hugs me and beckons me into the apartment.

“Thank you, it's good to be here. Your place feels very nice.”

His voice is soft, a bit high for a man and, like hers, has the sing-song cadence that can make the North European accents so charming. “It's a small place, but we think there's enough room for us all.”

“The landlord didn't think it was big enough for the two of us,” says Elke. “They will be very amused to learn we had a guest.” Her tone turns a bit apologetic. “We really didn't have a second bed but we put this together. We hope it's comfortable for you.”

I sit on the pile of thick blankets stretched over a broad camping mat on the floor. “Perfect! This is exactly the kind of surface I sleep best on.”

Skylar waves me into the tiny kitchen. “Feel as you are in your own home, take whatever you want, don't even ask. We've made a big pot of tea, would you like some?”

The tea is like a stew of herbs, strong and a bit odd in its chaos of flavors. My friends' style is endearing to me. Not since leaving Hawaii have I have been in a kitchen full of herbs for experimental tea research. It feels as if I've discovered family I didn't know I had, my Dutch hippie cousins.

I peruse a book lying out: "the Places that Scare You" by an American Buddhist writer. First book on Buddhism I've seen since I left the US. Yes, I am among kindred souls. Everything about them is extremely casual. They abide in a place of ease and invite you to join them there.

We sit in their bedroom, drinking port wine and listening to their record collection. They brought it, the turntable and the amp all the way from Amsterdam. Only the speakers were bought here in Jordan, which turned out to rather ruin the sound. “We also brought those two tapestries, and that's about it.” says Skylar. “We got rid of everything we had. Even the record collection is about a tenth of what it was. But it's great, we saved only the best of the best, so now we can grab any record and say, oh I can definitely listen to this again right now!”

They talk about their wedding, how wonderful a party it was and how they managed to do it for virtually no money.

They came out to Jordan with the hopes of starting a bread-and-breakfast, but like me have discovered that the Mid-East isn't home. They have quickly grown sick of Arab culture in general and Amman life in particular, and are feeling they're already on their way out of Jordan. I commiserate with them about this, and particularly on the Arab culture bit. I have a glass of wine in my hand when I first mention that I am a Muslim. They listen fascinated to the bits of my story I tell them.

“Here, look at my passport. Guys here joke that I look like Osama Bin Laden in that photo. A friend of mine warned me against wearing kufis in Egypt, so I lost that bit of the look before I even came out here. I kept the beard until I came to Jordan, and than I shaved it off. I got really burned out on religion in Syria, and now I'm happy to be mistaken for a Christian.”

Skylar is an ex-Christian, glad to have shrugged off trying to believe in heaven and hell, and recently turned on to Buddhist thought. Now we're on a favorite topic of mine, and we kick the Buddhist ball around for a while before Skylar exclaims how wonderful an idea it was for them to have me over. “It's so good to finally have someone we can really talk with. We've been getting so tired of the stupid chit-chat.”

We talk about American and Dutch society, and I am impressed with what they left behind them when they came here. I must visit the Netherlands some time. We talk about our love of cannabis, how beneficial it's been to be away from it and how much we miss it.

Like everyone else, they can't believe I'm forty-one. Skylar challenges me to guess his age. I gaze into his eyes for a minute, summoning all my intuitive power. “I'd say... twenty-six.”

“Yes, exactly!"

“Can you guess my age, too?” asks Elke.

I repeat the Jedi mind trick, holding her gaze til the number comes to me. “Twenty-five.”

Skylar is deeply impressed. “How do you do that?!” I just grin. There's nothing to do but guess, and I happened to guess very well tonight.

Elke speaks of how isolated they feel here, how they have no real friends here.

"But I think we have one now," says Skylar.

They laugh easily and I laugh with them.

At one point in my storytelling, I mention coming out to a place somewhere when Elke interrupts, "Sorry, you said you 'came out.' Do you mean you're gay?"

The question shocks me a bit. Homosexuality is a topic simply not spoken about anywhere I've been traveling in these last three months, and her tone is so matter-of-fact, as if she is all ready to make a new gay friend.

"No, I meant 'come out' literally, as in I went there."

"Oh, I see."

I don't recall myself commenting further on my sexuality at that point, and I'm sure she makes no further inquiry about it.

"So while I was in Aqaba," I tell them, "I got to snorkel for the first time since I left Hawaii, and it was amazing. All this time I've been traveling I've really been getting stuck in my head. I know it, I can feel it, my consciousness shifting out of my body, and it's something I have to fix before I can expect myself to do bodywork again. Snorkeling started bringing me back to life again, and I realized I really need more of that. More swimming, and some hashish would make it even better! So I started thinking Dahab is next.

"But I also want to spend a stretch of time in a quiet place where I can just meditate and write for -- the number that comes to mind is forty days -- and I think it would make sense to do that before I get all stoned and dissipated. So I'm inclined to return to the Mar Musa monastery in Syria. I can stay there for a long time in exchange for a little work.

"Anyhow, like you guys, I'm getting a "Game Over" vibe about Jordan, but I can't leave without seeing Wadi Rum. Are you two equally interested in going?"

“It's very interesting,” says Elke. “But we might not be ready to go so soon, we have things to figure out. Like are we going to pay the next month's rent, or tell them we're going.”

Skylar and I feed each other with enthusiasm for camping and hiking in the desert. We pore over the Lonely Planet guidebook and discuss how we can get in and find trails without getting bilked by guides. Elke, though, says she's much less athletic than us and tells us we should plan to hike without her. Skylar can not persuade her that hiking in the desert won't really be so hard, and she insists that she can take shorter trails or will be OK staying in the tent while we're out.

“You guys have a tent?”

Plans are postponed. We make snacks, and I wash the dishes against Skylar's mild protest. I have to get up in the morning to give a tryout massage for a possible future interview at the Grand Hyatt. I really don't have much interest in working in Jordan at this point, am regarding this as my giving a free massage, and trying to regard it as a dress rehearsal for something I really want. I bid them good night. No one has said anything about my staying any longer, but I'm happy to see if the offer comes in the morning.

Sunday, November 15th. My phone's alarm wakes me up. I have my tea, a bit of bread, and as they are still sleeping in the minutes before I must leave, I pack everything back up in my travel bags. Skylar wakes up just in time for me to ask him for a towel, and when I finish my shower he has left the house.

"He went out to buy breakfast," Elke says.

"Ah, too late for me. I need to leave like right now."

"Really?"

"Yeah, interview's at 12, and it's 11:30 already."

"Oh, I didn't realize you'd have to go so quickly..."

"Sorry to go unceremoniously. It's been great, I love you guys. Maybe I'll see you at the CouchSurfing walk tonight?"

"Yes, we should go. Do you when any information about it, where it is...?"

"No, but straight after I do this massage I'm going to the Rashid Cafe to do all my on-line stuff, and I'll look it up and call you."

"Great, see you then!"

I walk down the hill to where I can catch a taxi, my big travel bag strapped around my waist and chest, the day pack dangling from my shoulder in front. I see a little spiritual crossroads: I could regard with annoyance that I have to cart this stuff with me to the interview, or I can turn my mind to appreciate the bit of adventure and spontaneity; life is interesting when you don't know where you'll spend the night. And indeed I have no worries; a second invite from Skylar and Elke wouldn't surprise me and there is always the Adha hotel. I relish the memory of last night's sweetness, and my step is light as the ground falls before me.

Skylar comes up from the grocery store, bags hanging from his hand. "You're missing breakfast!" he cries.

"Sorry, but missing the interview would be worse. Thanks again for having me over."

"Oh no, thank you, it was wonderful having you stay with us. I hope you'll come back." We hug, and as I step out of the embrace I plant a kiss on his cheek. Why not, we're in the Middle East, it's one of their customs I like.

I falter a bit through the “interview” massage and am left feeling weird, knowing that there will probably be no offer from them. On the way out I take their brochure, check out the prices and wonder how much they can possibly afford to pay their therapists. Getting to the Rashid Cafe entails a fight with a cabbie spoiled by rich tourists.

I take my usual table on the balcony, order a pot of shayy wa marmaria, the sage-infused black tea that will cost me only one dinar, but justify my hanging around for hours on their Wi-Fi. The sky is clouding up, the wind starts blowing and already it's time for the hoodie jacket. I call Elke with the info about tonight's walk.

“Atiq, I'm sorry about how this morning went. We both wanted to tell you to stay longer, but we didn't get the chance to talk about it with each other before you left. I'm sorry you had to carry your bags all day. Do you want to come back today?”

Life is sweet. To know I'll spend the night with friends again!



Skylar is telling me how glad he is to have me over again. "I like how in Arab culture they say you're a guest for three days, and if you stay later you must be family."

It does indeed feel like home to me. The night is cold, and we hang around the electric heater in their room. When they want to smoke cigarettes they go out to the patio. It's not just for my sake, they insist, they prefer not to have smoke in the house.

"So," I tell them, "I was researching Wadi Rum on the Web today and I found an ad posted by the Bedouin Meditation Camp there. They're looking -- or at least, they were looking at the time they posted the ad -- for a few people to do a few hours of volunteer work a day, in exchange for tents in the camp and free food."

"Bedouin Meditation Camp!" repeats Elke with a laugh. "Sounds perfect!" Skylar is clearly pleased by her reaction.

"Has a nice ring for me, too,” I say. “You know I've been planning a time like a retreat for writing and meditating, and I thought I'd do it first thing after Jordan. But the desert might be the perfect place for it, and if I could find a sustainable way to do it here in Jordan, maybe I won't rush out of here."

I read them the PDF I made of the ad. There's a long list of possible ways the volunteers can help around camp, from Web design to gardening to cleaning, and Skylar and Elke comment on ways that sound like fun to them. The main thing they want to know is what commitment of time these people will want.

"So, shall we call them in the morning?"

"Yeah, I think so," says Skylar. "Anyway, the morning is the morning. What about now, the only time that is real?"

"I think a pot of tea would be nice," says Elke.

"Wa marmaria?" I ask. They nod and grin. "Cool. I'll go make it."

And on to the next moment, and on and on; I easily fall in step with their way of taking time. My own inclination to make plans and follow through on them slipped away when I made my unplanned stumble into Jordan, this country from which I keep saying I am about to leave. Now it is the impulse of the moment that leads the way. Plans do not thrive well in this environment, and my push for Wadi Rum will soon stand the test. They remind me of people constantly stoned, and their presence is narcotizing. I, too, can easily postpone a decision until after the next snack, the next album, the next chat about this or that.

They pick up beer at the cheaper liquor store. "Nice thing about lots of Christians in the neighborhood: choices of alcohol!" I give it a test and my body gives the usual "no" reaction. I mention how nice last night's port was and they divvy up the last of it.

Time for a DVD, will I help them choose? They have a number of films they bought at the pirate shop and haven't gotten around to watching. We settle on Spike Lee's film about Malcolm X, a favorite of mine that I remember as one of the milestones in my heart's opening to Islam.

With a wave of his hand Skylar beckons me over to sit next to him in the big stuffed chair. As I sit our hands touch, and without a thought, as if it were the most natural thing, they close gently around each other. We sit like this, holding hands for a while. After three months in the Middle East I am used to this degree of intimacy with other men, but I know well that we are both Westerners, raised with a taboo we are casually, silently breaking. I am astonished at how good his hand feels in mine, nourishing and unexpected like rain in the desert. I wonder what he is feeling.

This lasts until his next trip to the kitchen, and then he sits with his wife on the bed.

The first disc comes to its end, and they are too sleepy to watch the second. So I say good night and retire to the bed they made me. Time to quiet the mind from the day's stimulation. I find myself imagining Skylar is lying here with me, our arms around each other. Like a child's teddy bear or security blanket, this image lulls me to sleep.

Monday. We sleep til noon.

“Coffee and a cigarette, the perfect breakfast,” says Skylar. “At least, that's what I think now that I'm here. I used to think it was coffee and a spliff.” I make a grocery run and prepare a mezze of hummos, bread, zattar, olives and oil, and bring it with a fresh pot of tea to them in their room.

"My God, you even heated the bread? You're so in tune with food."

"Just got a little inspired while I was in Syria. Everyone there understands food and its presentation so well. Not even the roughest men will serve hummos without first drawing a pattern with the edge of a knife and drizzling olive oil into it. No, I think in Syria I'd be embarrassed to present a breakfast as crude as this!"

"It's very nice to have such attention put into something offered to you."

"After breakfast," I ask, "Can we look at the camp ad and call the guy?"

"Sure."



I follow Skylar out to the patio for his cigarette break. The midday sun is warm and we are barefoot. One of the things I like about Skylar is how important philosophy is to him, how earnestly he speaks, heart and intellect intertwined. I have raised the topic of the will of the individual human versus the Divine will. Why I don't remember, perhaps it is arising from my growing awareness that getting anything done around here is going to take some concerted effort.

Skylar doesn't believe in the human will at all. “You can say, I choose to do this, I will do that,” he says, “but really, any thought is just something stirred by a motion, an emotion or feeling. And sometimes you have conflicting emotions, so you might change your mind and think a lot about what the best decision is, but in the end the decision you make is determined which emotion is the strongest. I look back every moment of my life and I can't see how anything could have gone any differently. Yes, in theory, there were times when I could have made a different decision, but really that could only have happened if my emotions at the time had been in a different balance. And of course they weren't. Things are always as they are, and everything unfolds according to how everything is already moving. There's no being standing outside of the movement, freely making any choices.”

I see his reasoning but I am uncomfortable with it. It seems to reduce us to automatons. Where in this worldview is the striving to do good, to be mindful, and to understand truth? Where is responsibility, the conscience?

“What role does consciousness play in this world view of yours?” I ask.

He looks almost stern. “What is consciousness?”

“Well, that's a great question we can kick around endlessly later. For now, let's just use as a working definition, 'that which is asking the question "What is consciousness?”'"

“Well, I think it's totally influenced by the emotions of the moment, too.”

I find myself in a strange position: I want to defend the existence of the individual will, even though this contradicts the principal teaching of my spiritual path: that the individual has no separate existence from the One, Allah. Should I stop arguing and just try to see things the way Skylar does? Points of view engender different emotions and actions. Where would this man's philosophy take me? to a place devoid of morality?

We are silent and locked in each other's gazes. I am calling out to Truth, and Skylar's gaze challenges me to attention. It would be cowardice to look away from these twin blue flames.

He speaks quietly. "You don't look away like most people do. You keep looking deeper."

Perhaps I have failed to make it clear, but I do not want to call the man at the camp without the three of us around the phone, and now Elke is having some meditation time in their room.

"Damn good idea,” I say. We should all be doing that. I haven't meditated but once or twice since I started traveling. Really hard to establish such a discipline when you're always in different places. I think Wadi Rum could be a great place for it, if we find we can stay there."

"Yes, it should. Don't do the dishes, you made breakfast."

"No, I really don't mind. I actually like doing dishes." It is true, sometimes washing dishes is a solace to me, a meditation I can turn off my mind and submerge into, a task I can easily accomplish and see the results of, a symbolic victory of order over chaos. Perhaps I am being moved by this need to see that I am accomplishing something, answering the tension around the feeling that in this house time can disappear into a haze.

"Anyway, Elke just needs to have some time alone right now."

"We all do, it's crucial."

"Thanks for letting us have our time alone together, too."

"It all works out fine, I get to have my time alone that way, as well."

"You really share the space very well with us, it doesn't feel at all a burden to have you here."

"Has it been three days already, or do I get to join your family sooner?"

"I think you're our brother now!"

When I next visit them in their room, they are in the big chair, Elke crying, Skylar's arm around her shoulder. They eyes indicate I am welcome and I quietly take the seat against the next wall.

After half a minute she says "sometimes I just need to cry,"

"It's good that you let yourself do it."

"Yes." She smiles. "Thanks for letting me, too." Slowly she tells me about the stress they are going through. It was such an extreme break they made with their old life, their family and friends, and nothing has come out as they'd hoped in Jordan. She's goes on to say how much energy seemed sucked up by disappointment with the Middle East, and how anxious she is about how they don't know where they're going next.

Things changed with their relationship earlier this year. They were going to have a baby, but Elke miscarried... Skylar is motionless, looking at his wife in silent support.

She expresses mixed feelings about the Wadi Rum venture and how much less athletic she is than us. She told us to feel free to hike together but lately she's been asking herself how she would really feel right now if she were alone in a tent out in the desert. I assure her Skylar and I won't go anywhere without her.

So, it is best we didn't rush the phone call. We must let all the feelings come out of hiding and be sorted out before we can really plan anything together. I must respect the pace of how things are done.

So on to the next moment and whatever impulse proves the strongest in guiding it. As such things happen in repetition, with little change from day to day, that now as I struggle to remember the details of what happened I find my memory of five days is a blur, a timeless hazy dream.

We listen to music constantly. Often one of them will identify the tune we're listening to as having been on the mix for their wedding. And often the song is dark, cynical, or obscene. Nick Cave's "Staggerlee." Rammstein's "Du Hast."

Willst du bis der Tod euch scheidet
treu ihr sein für alle Tage?
Nein! Nein! *
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* (Do you want, until death separates you, to be faithful to her for all days? No! No! )

I remember again getting locked in Skylar's gaze until he makes a quiet pronouncement: "Yes, you definitely have a different look than most people."

I break the sober atmosphere with a warm smile and his gaze softens, too, a bit of light shining now on the blue waters of his eyes. I step forward and we embrace. Our respective heights bring my head to his chest, and as we hold each other I can hear his heart beating hard. Straight men's hearts don't beat this way when they give a pal a hug.

Another CouchSurfer calls seeking hospitality. Rudolph the Belgian, who we met at a CouchSurfing gathering last week. We'll meet him at the film tonight and he'll come home with us. I get an SMS from Robin inviting me to a dinner party, and I reply sorry, I'm seeing the film with my hosts.

The film is about the struggles of three Malians to illegally emigrate to Europe, one of them dying in the desert. I appreciate that it makes my problems seem so petty.

Robin has Yousouf SMS me an invite: there's leftovers. I talk about it with my friends and the general feeling is that we're not in the mood for a large group dynamic. They encourage me to go off on my own if I don't want to miss Robin's party, and while I do feel a little bad about not seeing her, the stronger desire for me is to stay with my new family. Skylar seems pleased with this and we link arms as the four of us walk back up the freshly rainslicked streets of Jebel Al-Ashrafiyya.

I get an SMS from the Dead Sea Holiday Inn asking if we can postpone tomorrow's followup interview. Shit, I meant to cancel it altogether. I've been meaning to call for two days now and keep forgetting to do it. My mind has become utterly scattered.

We all hang out in their room that evening, sometimes sharing a single conversation, other times splitting into pairs. They talk again about their wedding, the endless spliffs, the supportive presence of all their families.

Skylar tells me about how his relationship with Elke evolved from what had already been a platonic friendship for a few years. Then he and Rudolph go to the kitchen together, and alone with me Elke continues the discussion.

"Actually, it wasn't even until he started dating his last girlfriend that I even realized he was bisexual. Before then I had only known him to date other men, and I just saw him as gay. I think he was also just figuring out that he was bisexual, too."

This news comes out of the blue and it strikes me that she seems to have grabbed a private moment to divulge it to me. I think about the exchanges I've been having with Skylar and the sound of his heart beating hard against my ear. A married man whose wife I regard rather like a sister, as I do him a brother. And I can't imagine he would cheat on her. We are both restrained from doing anything sexual with each other... is there danger in these hugs and silent, lingering gazes?

That night I again find a teddy bear in the image of Skylar in my arms. Against the opposite wall on his own camping mat, Rudolph continuously wakes me up with his snoring.

Another day passes as do the others. We decide to call the camp, but they have just filled all the volunteer tents. They invite us check in again some other time. On to the next pot of tea and so flows the day.

Added now to background of easygoing haze is a tension of unspoken thoughts. Has she told him that she informed me of his bisexuality? Are they wondering about my sexuality, as she so casually inquired into that first night?

I look back on the days when I actually sought out men for partnership. How I would have loved to have had a boyfriend like Skylar back then. None of the men I dated were hippies, and most of them had that attachment to the gay identity that never really jibed with me. I get the sense Skylar was never like that. He would have been too authentic, too much in tune with his true self.

I can see myself with him, running my fingers through his blond curls -- what circumstances of my life would have had to have been different to make this happen? I would have had to find the guts to travel much earlier... but of course then Skylar would have been only a kid at the time... I suddenly realize how deep in reverie I've drifted and pull myself out of it.

A little voice inside asks if I have fallen into a soft trap. Maybe the healthiest thing to do is tear myself from this warm bewitching place. The voice proves easy to ignore.

Tension breaks one afternoon when Skylar and I are alone in the kitchen and I'm telling him about Robin.

"She's always been so warm with me, and seems to take such an interest in me. But you know, that's the way it is with very extroverted types, you get one impression of what they think of you when you're alone with them, but then you see them working a social scene, making everyone feel that way, and you have to wonder what you really mean to them."

He nods and smiles in sympathy.

"You remember the day of the ravine cleanup. She and I rode the bus up together, and we sat in the back of the bus, half asleep, and started holding hands. We snuggled a bit, too, as much as could be considered borderline acceptable in public. And we've kept up that level of contact. When we're alone together we will sit on her couch holding each other. But I've never gotten the impression that she wants anything more than that. And you know, I've never really figured out what I want from her either. I am attracted to her, I'm quite fond of her, and I really, really enjoy her company and conversation. But I ask myself, is this woman someone I'd want to get tenderhearted with, show my vulnerable side to?" He nods, appreciating the difference.

"I asked Amanda what Robin ever said about me, and she said she liked having a man she could cuddle with without it turning into a public scandal. So, I think that was all she ever wanted from me, a friendship on the level of so many friendships she already has, with the added benefit of chaste cuddles."

"Yes, I could see how a single woman could really want that."

A leap of courage overtakes me. I rinse the soap suds off my hands and face him to say, "And I, too, appreciate the rare times I find a man I can feel safe cuddling with."

Again he takes me into his arms and again brings my ear to his pounding heart. But then he pushes me away again, saying, "but I don't feel safe with it."

"OK." I answer quietly and step away, returning to my dishes while he continues chopping potatoes.

Quietly I ask, "Is it erotic for you?" He is silent. All right, I will continue in my bravery. "Well, it can be for me."

"Can be?"

"It is. With you. But you know, I respect your marriage and I know nothing could happen between us."

"Well, you know, it's actually not because we're married. We got married, but our relationship is still the same as before. She is free to see other men, I am free to see other men. But our relationship always comes first, and we keep no secrets from each other. And one rule I always follow is: not in my house. My house is just for my marriage and I always want its energy pure that way."

"That's very wise." I say. "And look, I don't want a homosexual affair myself. It's just something that never works for me. Figured that out years ago. And I would really hate to screw up our friendship."

"I don't think there's ever a reason for anything to get screwed up as long as everyone remains very clear and open."

"But Skylar, doesn't this arrangement of yours create jealousy?"

He tosses his hand open to the heavens. "Yeah, there can be a little jealousy, but it's not as big a problem as it would be if we were always feeling bound some rules we imposed on each other. Now, though, this would be a bad time for me to have another lover."

"Yes. I can see the stress you two are carrying." I think of Elke's crying jag the other day, and what she said about the miscarriage. She seems a bit fragile to carry the weight of her husband seeing another man. I wonder about this agreement they have; is the option for side affairs something she really wants at all, or is this an accommodation she makes in sacrifice to him?

At any rate, having this conversation has left me feeling as if a stone were lifted from my chest. Two stones, actually: carrying an uncomfortable secret, and not knowing my attraction was reciprocated. The one makes me more comfortable with my friends, the other makes me feel a lot better about myself.

One day Elke gets the wireless password from the landlord, and my laptop is put to the service of everyone. Elke wants to find the ad we answered too late. I tell her where to find it and when she returns the laptop to me, I see posted right below it an ad from another camp at Wadi Rum. Neither of us say anything about it. I post a query on the Amman CS site asking if anyone has a good Wadi Rum trail book they can lend me.

There are two weeks left on the thirty days Skylar and Elke have paid rent for, two weeks to decide on whether to stay or go. They are thinking of going to India, but are very unsure about it. If they could get another offer from a desert camp, could they imagine leaving the place in Amman completely and try living in the desert for a while?

It's possible, Skylar says. They have too much to think about. He suggests it would be easier for me to make my own plans and not count on their coming along. A feel a pang in my heart. For the first time I imagine going separate ways and realize just how badly I'll miss these two.

Rudolph suggests we go bowling. Everyone agrees but me; I will go hunting for a trail book and some warm clothing. In the used clothes shop the delicate tones of Sheikh Saad Gamidi's Quranic recitations rekindles something in my heart. I think in the desert I'll get back into the habit of doing salat five times a day. Yes, it's a decision: I'll be "out" as a Muslim among the Bedouins.

I bring the laptop and on the way back home stop at Rashid Cafe. On the site I find the ad from the other camp. Their offer is very similar: tents and food in exchange for a few hours' work a day. Fewer, more specific duties, mostly cleaning. Limited to three people. I call up the proprietor, a Mr. Muhammad, and tell him about myself and my friends. He tells me that I could come any time, but if my friends want to come along they'd better come tomorrow; another couple expressed an interest and might well show up any time.

I return home with new energy. My mind is made up, I'm going. If they don't come along, I'll miss them, but at least I'll be out of this lethargy; one way or another things will shift now.

I arrive in time to share the meal they've cooked with Rudolph. Traditional Dutch food they're surprised I enjoy. At a suitable point in the evening I share the news.

"He says he's got an American woman working there for the past seven months. I took that as a good sign."

"And what kind of time commitment does he want?" asks Skylar.

"He just asked me how long we wanted to stay. I said if I loved the place I might want to stay for a month, and that you guys might be interested in staying for a while, too, but that we all needed to visit the place first before we could commit to anything. He was fine with it."

"Well then, let's go," he says.

"Really? You're ready? What do you think, Elke?"

"Yes," she answers slowly. "Why not, if we can try it for just a few days. There's still plenty of time to decide about the apartment."

"Cool! I'd have missed you two. Can we try to get there before sunset?" At this point we've talked about Wadi Rum enough they know the drill for getting there: we will take the public bus to Aqaba, making sure the driver knows to let us out at the Rashidiyya turnoff on the highway. From there we need a microbus, and Mr. Muhammad has assured me that micros still run from the turnoff in the afternoon.

They teach me the game they were playing when I came home, a card game they brought with them from Holland called Kuhhandel, meaning Cow Trade. It is simple in its rules and complex in its strategy, based on buying and selling farm animals at auction, and sometimes betting your gains against your opponents' in blind bidding battles. Winning skills include bluffing, shrewd deal making and keeping track of your opponents' assets as best you can. To mismanage your money is to wind up having your animals stripped from you for peanuts, and thus I find myself at Skylar's mercy with every round. The experience resonates with my inner emotional life. I am playing a game in which Skylar has all the power, I have none, and am only figuring out the rules as I play. I watch him relishing the game. A bisexual man with a woman who lets him play with other men. He has everything he needs, nothing to lose and can have fun playing, calling the stakes as he likes. How much power that woman gives him!

But I am enjoying the game, too, and with a newfound attitude of acceptance am looking at the power-play aspect of love relationships. The kind of thing that fascinates some artists -- I could be a character in a Fassbinder film at this point -- but which has always repelled and frightened me. Now at least I can say: it is as it is, and has its part in the beautiful grand scheme of things. I put Tom Waits on the iPod and draw their chuckles, hoarsely singing along as I deal the next hand.

If there's one thing you can say about mankind
There's nothing kind about man
You can drive out nature with a pitchfork
But it always comes roaring back again

Misery's the river of the world
Misery's the river of the world



Naturally I am the one who sets an alarm to get up. I make a pot of tea, strong wa marmaria, and set four glasses on a platter with honey and a glass of milk. First dose goes to the doctor. Thus girded, I first go to work on Rudolph.

"Rudolph? Care for tea?"

He murmurs assent, then rolls over on his stomach.

OK, time to knock on their door. "Darlings? Ready for tea?" I knock on the door and from their bed they call me in. I leave the tray with them and set to work on last night's dishes. Eventually Rudolph gets up and asks where the tea is. He gets his from their room but they stay behind the door. I am starting to worry. With people this impulsive, it's easy to imagine them having a change of heart about the whole idea. Reluctance to waken alone could break the deal. Better to let them sleep longer? I don't want to arrive in the desert at night.

I am in need of more stimulation than caffeine alone. If I were by myself, I'd be blasting Metallica right now. How far out of my way should I go to let people sleep who really should be awake by now? A reasonable compromise: Rammstein on my laptop, all albums, and shuffle play for the element of surprise. Soon they are up and lethargically singing along in German. We seem to move with reasonable speed, but I am chagrined at the time we wind up on the bus; we will arrive after dark.

Since we won't take the bus to the end we stow no bags but take everything with us on the bus. I wind up sitting next to Elke's bag, and my friends choose to sit all the way in the back. I notice the emotions quietly stirring in me. Loneliness, and foreboding. At one point I hear the sound of Skylar's voice as he walks up the aisle toward me. My heart leaps. There's too much emotion flaring. What is happening to me?

Mr. Muhammad calls to check in, and is disappointed that we will arrive after dark. Further dialog with the bus driver fails to calm my nerves until we are off the bus. When we arrive there, a van parked across the highway flashes its light in beckoning. The driver mentions Mr. Muhammad and at first I assume he works for him. But he's just an independent driver staking out the last bus from Amman and taking advantage of our situation to charge us ten dinars to take us to Mr. Muhammad's office in the camp.

I do not feel like haggling, but Skylar holds his own. We may need the taxi, but the driver needs us, too. He has only one other fare, a local guy, and he will have to wait as long for more fares as we will for an alternate ride. We can try hitching rides and see if he brings the price down. I admire Skylar's strength, and ask myself where mine's gone. I realize that I destroyed it in self-flagellation over not getting us out here before dark.

The night is cold, but no colder than Amman, and without the moisture in the air. Our clothes are just warm enough. We win the waiting game and for five dinars are soon through the gates, and switching vehicles for a bumpy, swerving Jeep ride through the desert. At the camp we are shown the comfortable looking tents we'll call home. Goatskins and tarps stretched across metal frames anchored in concrete blocks, carpets and mattresses stretched across the sand floors. The kitchen and bathroom are a more permanent structure, with concrete walls built next to an enormous rock over which its solar panels and water pumps climb. The dining area is a huge rectangular tent extending from this structure. There are delicious leftovers for us, and we are introduced to the Sudanese chef Mahmoud.

The desert is utterly silent but for the sounds of wind stirring, and the occasional bellowing complaint of a camel far away. The stars are brilliant in the moonless sky, against which we can see the black profiles of distant jebels.

Then we are led to a large tent with a fire and chimney. This is the place where everyone, guides, drivers and tourists alike, gathers after dinner. There is always a kettle of Bedouin tea in the fire, and endlessly re-used glasses litter the stone walls of the fireplace. Tonight there are no tourists in the tent, only us and a few Bedouin guys who after the lazy "welcome" greetings are silent and pay little mind to us as we speak quietly in English.

I make my friends laugh, offering "After all these years, mankind has not come up with better technology than fire."

Skylar notes the sand around here is very firm, with lots of pebbles and rocks. "It will be easy to hike on. Perfect."

"Yes," says Elke. "This is a perfect place. Thanks for getting us out here, Atiq. I know it's not easy to get us to move."

Skylar laughs. "That was so perfect how you did it this morning, first bringing us tea, than putting on Rammstein!"

Elke is tired and bids us good night. I toss another log on the fire and Skylar pours us more tea.

"I think the desert might be really good for all of us." I say.

"Yes, I think you're right. So peaceful and quiet."

"I hope it will be healing for Elke."

"Healing?"

"She seems to carry a lot. I often think about what she said about the miscarriage."

He sighs and stares into the fire. "It is quite a thing, to have this being, this person you were both bringing into the world, suddenly dead in the toilet. It happened in the morning. I just went to work."

"You went to work?"

"Yes, you know, what else is there to do, you could go crazy or you can go on with the everyday things of life."

"You didn't stay with Elke?"

"No."

I take time with my words. "I can only imagine what it's look to be a woman. Can an experience like this hurt her esteem as a woman? You know, the way certain failures can hurt our sense of manhood?"

"What do you mean? What kind of failures would those be?"

I try to come up with an answer but give up. I can't explain to a guy who needs to ask. Skylar admits they don't talk about the miscarriage much, and perhaps he needs to talk to her about it more. He thanks me for giving him something to think about regarding Elke's suffering.

From across the fire he is giving me another of his compelling stares. I wonder what he wants from me when he looks at me this way. I start talking about David and why I can't let myself have another homosexual relationship. I am counting on the Bedouin around us having fallen asleep or not knowing enough English to follow us, but Skylar interrupts: "wouldn't you rather talk about this outside?"


There is still no moon and though marvelously bright, the stars don't give enough light for us blinded by fire to find our footing but by the stumbling of our feet. As the sand beneath us gives way to rock, we step into each other, gently steady ourselves with hands on each other's backs, and climb what emerges as a huge rock protruding from the sand as an outcropping from which campers must have watched the sun set before we arrived. We find a place to sit, huddling together in the cool night with our arms around each other, conversing in fervent whispers in each others' ears. I continue my story:

"We moved from New York to Australia hoping that the move would breathe some new life into our relationship. But our problems just followed us, and trying to settle in Sydney and get work was really hard for us, and put new stressors on the relationship. But for me, just to have gotten out of America, and having to deal with a different culture was doing me good, helping me grow, and I didn't want to leave. And one morning he woke up and said "that's it, I can't take it anymore. I'm going back to New York." And I said "OK then, you go and I stay."

"Is that when you broke up? He came back to the US?"

"No, we stayed together a few months after that. In the end I was the first to return to the States. But that morning was the first time I realized that if I had to choose between my growth and our relationship I would choose my growth. It was the beginning of our breakup. Later I spent a week in New Zealand to get my Australian visa renewed. First time I'd traveled alone in a different country since I was 19. I got to re-experience myself, I felt that I had lost myself in the relationship and forgotten who I was. I met women I was attracted to and really felt like I'd cut myself out of life.

"When I got back home I couldn't believe how constrained I felt. I could see the problems David and I were having and asked myself what it would take to work through them, and I could not find in myself the will to. The will wasn't there because I'd cut myself off at the feet, denying my deepest desires -- to have a wife and a child. I left David, and it was like tearing out my heart, knowing that I needed to tear it out in order to live. And I couldn't go through that heartbreak again, or put another man through it. And this is why it's so difficult for me when I feel attracted to another man. Not the passing, petty admiration of a handsome face or a sexy body, those come and go all the time, and they're are no problem, but once in a rare while, I feel something much more emotional..." There is a catch in my throat. "And it has been a very, very long time since I wanted another man's touch the way I want yours."

Unexpectedly, a sob breaks and I collapse in a ball. He puts a hand on my shoulder and brings my head to rest on his thigh. My face feels the heat radiating from his crotch. Too intensely sexual. I sit up and lean my head on his chest, listening to his heart pound. We sigh in turn, we sigh together.

"Oh, Skylar, my brother."

"My brother, Atiq."

"I have been longing to run my hands through your hair," I say as I take the liberty of doing it.

He caresses my cheek and brings our foreheads together. His lips an inch from mine, he whispers, "You have to respect that my marriage comes first."

"I totally respect it. And if you didn't have Elke, I wouldn't dare touch you. I would have run away by now."

"We talk about everything, you know."

"I'm glad about that. I'd have a problem if I thought I was being a secret you were keeping from her."

"She asks me if I think you're in love with me."

Nervously I laugh. "Really?"

"After the first time we met, she said you seemed to be flirting with me. I hadn't picked up on it." Funny, I don't remember flirting with him that night, either, or even feeling this kind of attraction to him then. I guess things have been happening on a subconscious level with me for a while now.

"One more thing. You have to be careful you don't get your heart broken."

"I'll see if I can avoid it."

"I don't think we should have sex."

"No, I don't want to have sex with you. It would be really bad for me. And I don't need it. I get so much from your touch alone. I'm so grateful to be able to touch you, and tell you how I feel, and if I could just -- "

I give the first kisses. Very softly and gently, on his cheek and neck. Then I return my head to his chest and we share another deep breath. He begins nibbling my neck. My breaths turn to gasps. He brings my lips to his and immediately sticks his tongue in. I'm actually not ready for this but I try engaging his tongue with mine. It doesn't really raise my ardor the way it did just to touch and kiss him.

He asks me what I find attractive in him. I try to describe his eyes to him, how they burn like blue flames.

"You sound like you're in love."

I want to deny it. These words have not come to my mind once all this time. "It's so hard to know what's going on at the beginning." I say. "Of course it is," he says and kisses me again.

"Tell me, " I beg, "How do you feel with me?"

"Actually, you make me nervous."

"What?"

He laughs a bit."Really. The way you look into my eyes, I feel that you're looking at my soul, and you can read everything about me."

"I see nothing about you I don't adore."

"Even so, you make me nervous," he laughs and draws me to himself again.

I am having a powerful sensation in the center of my chest. My heart chakra is making its presence undeniably felt. It is like a radiating sun and at the same time a flower that won't stop opening, ever more petals peeling back to expose ever more still.

"I just can't believe how much my heart is opening up to you," I cry. There is no better way to describe it.

"You're trembling. Oh my God, I know the way that feels..."

We are interrupted by a bedouin, who comes out of the dark seeking company. "Why are we pulling apart?" asks Skylar as the footsteps get louder. "Oh that's right, we're in Jordan." We act natural for the length of the conversation about the trouble the guy's having with his girlfriend, and how before he can continue talking with her he needs to return to his car where his cell phone is recharging in the igniter outlet.

When Skylar says good-bye to me he congratulates me on how I look shaven. "It's the right idea. You're not like those other guys." He strokes my chin and we share a goodnight kiss.

Sleep does not come easily. As soon as I lie down, my nose fills with mucus and I can only breathe through my mouth, which quickly dries and leaves me coughing. That night I dream I have a working-class job where I am disrespected by the people I work for. I feel I can not afford to lose the job so I take the humiliation.

I wake just before sunrise, and step out to see the desert emerging from the dark. The iron-red sands and the jebels towering in the distance are painted and repainted in every shade of purple and crimson. I am delighted, so grateful to be surrounded by such beauty. And I feel it reflected, recognized by the great beauty within. Every cell of my body still tastes the sweetness of his touch, and I feel where my heart chakra flew endlessly open last night. That opening is there, a hole that catches the desert breezes and sings. My soul now knows life in a way it has long been deprived of. I get my camera, take pictures, and bask in the moment, even as my mind says there can be no painless way out of this.

A cry like a tropical bird. It is the Sudanese chef Mahmoud, Mad Mahmoud as I begin to call him. With signs and Arabic he conscripts me into helping prepare breakfast. While he works he dances and shrieks to African music only he can hear. Then he turns and chants a riff of wordless syllables while staring at me in strange earnestness, as if expecting me to recognize the melody and join in. I fake it and dance with him in between chopping vegetables and carrying platters.

Skylar and Elke are up and in the dining tent as I am bringing breakfast in. There is some awkwardness as we ask how each other slept and trade appreciation of the scenery. We wonder how long we'll stay, I say we'll soon see about the work situation, and mention my dream.

Elke breaks the silence: "So, Atiq, I need to have a talk with you."

"OK, but could we go somewhere more private?"

"Of course." I lead her around the way I wandered in the sunrise, on the other side of the huge rock from the kitchen, bathroom and dining tent.

She is calm and smiling as she says how Skylar told her that we had been kissing and holding each other the night before. "And that's very sweet. You understand that we allow each other to be with other people, and that we tell each other everything?"

"Oh yes, he made that clear. And I really appreciate it that you two are so open and communicative. Otherwise I would never have felt right being at all intimate with him."

"And you understand that our marriage comes first."

"Oh, of course I do. And as for myself, I just want you to know, that for me the worst thing that could come out of this would be if our friendship were damaged in any way." I feel obliged to add "meaning yours and mine as well as mine and his." She gives me a blank, probing look and in her silence I hear doubt that this friendship between myself and her is real.

Jeeps pull in to camp, and we quickly meet some fellow workers up from the office in the village. The American woman turns out to have an Arabic name, Saboora. She asks which if us is going to the office and who's staying and cleaning tents. "Two have to stay behind."

And so I accompany Saboora back to the office and get to speak with a native English speaker about the camp. The guides who work on a semi-freelance basis speak enough English to do their job. They generally don't stay at the camp in the evenings, so I am now getting a lot more English exposure than I can expect on days I stay behind at the camp.

On the way to the office, Saboora asks me if I speak Spanish.

"Un poco."

And so I am drafted as translator for three tourists from Spain, accompanying them for the rest of the day, zipping through the desert in a jeep, stopping at one stunningly beautiful place after another to hike, climb rock formations and run up and down dunes of red sand. It takes up more of my day's time than I bargained for, but is more like playing than working, so I don't complain. I feel like I could see the same landscapes day after day and never tire of them.

I keep wishing the two of them were here to share this with, and realize that I miss him. My God, a few hours' separation and I miss him. I'm afraid he might be right, I am acting like one in love. I mustn't tell him how I missed him today, no matter what I do.

My cell phone is out of range, but I compose a text message to send David later. It begins "I am in the most beautiful desert and in the most dangerous emotional waters..."

I ask Faris, our driver, where the qibla is and I pray dhuhr while he makes shayy wa marmaria on a campfire for us.

To my surprise we arrive back at the camp before sunset. I leap out of the jeep. Where are my friends? I find them bringing tea to guests. Elke warmly accepts my hug, but Skylar holds his tray and gives me a disconcertingly distant look.

"I thought you weren't coming back til later."

"So did I. The route Mr. Muhammad showed them this morning ended with us watching the sunset somewhere south of camp, and then coming here for dinner, so I was surprised when we just pulled in here. So, how was your day?"

"It was actually pretty boring. We cleaned out two tents as they asked us to, and then we were here by ourselves for the rest of the day. We're thinking of leaving."

"Didn't you go for a walk or anything?"

"Skylar did."

"Well, I'm going to go serve the guests tea," says Skylar and walks off to the fire tent.

When I next see Skylar, I am washing dishes. He brings me dirty glasses and is about to walk away without a smile.

"Skylar!"

"Yes?" He looks at me coldly. In the awkward pause that follows, my poise evaporates. "Hey man," I hear myself saying. "I missed you today." He is silent, and his eyes are icy blue maelstroms that freeze my blood.



Like a maddened ant I march back and forth over the rock where we made out the other evening. When I finally find the spot where my phone gets reception I send David the SMS. Some friend has to know what I am going through, at least where things were at the point when I wrote that message.

I do the maghrib prayer, and have trouble concentrating. I do not feel I have Allah's ear.

Next Mahmoud shepherds us into the kitchen to chop vegetables. They take one counter and stand side by side, backs turned to the counter left for me. They speak to each other in Dutch, with spirit and laughter. What a harsh-sounding Germanic language. It's all right, I tell myself. Surrender to the moment, whatever it brings. Stop telling stories about it. Be cool and let them have their space. Do absolutely nothing right now but simply cut the vegetables. I try to reduce the world to the vegetables I'm cutting, but can not ignore the tightness behind my eyes and twisting in my stomach.

I go my own way as soon as relieved from duty. I next see them in the dining tent as dinner time approaches. As I come in they are sitting on the bench where the food soon will be brought, directly facing the doorway where I stand frozen as they stop their conversation and look up at me.

It is upon me to speak. "Is there a place for me on that bench?"

"Sure," says Skylar and beckons for me to sit next to him. When I do, he turns a sniper's gaze on me and coolly says, "but I have to hurt you."

So, this is it already. Never in my life have I felt all my composure, pride, and sense of power all vacuumed away in an instant, like air from a ruptured space ship or submarine. I melt into tears.

Almost indifferently he states, "You are in love. You can't even be alone half the day without missing me. And this is not comfortable for me. And it's not comfortable for Elke, and it can't be comfortable for you."

Uncomfortable as a knife in the heart, you smug dispassionate bastard. I catch my breath and answer slowly, "OK. It's all right. It's not a surprise. Knew it was coming. I've been tasting this pain for a long time. It's always been mixed in with all the sweetness. And I have to say yes to it all."

"Good. It's good that you accept it. And there is something else. I need some distance from you now."

Suddenly I have to gasp for more air and my voice is reduced to a whisper. "How much distance do you need?"

"I don't think you should touch me again while we're here. And maybe when we go it might be better if we just said good-bye until we happen to meet again."

"No," I beg. I have been through this before, this is a nightmare come to life again. "That would not be good for me. Please stay in touch with me."

The bedouins start bringing in the food and give me passing looks of curiosity. Oh, couldn't they at least have granted me some privacy for my pain and humiliation? Why did they have to make this conversation happen here and now? They're leaving and they don't have to worry what people think, and they know that I want to try living here.

I get out, scramble around to other side of the rock, and at a point steep enough to warrant grabbing the rock with all fours I throw my face down. One sob rips through me, and in fear I wonder if the sound was loud enough to echo back to the camp. My sense of self-preservation takes over. I say to myself no, not one more sob. I rise to my feet praying for ease surrendering to the moment, to experience the moment's hidden mercy and to have the ability to bear the pain with dignity and control. I pray for Skylar and Elke's happiness and murmur a formulaic blessing on the Prophet Muhammad.

I run to the bathroom, wash my face in cold water, and jog around to the dining tent where I find them waiting outside.

"Hey, listen," I declare. "Don't regret anything."

"I don't." His tone is flat. "Nothing could have happened differently. I hope you don't have any regret, either."

"No, I've found my way back to gratitude. I'm grateful for it all. In the end it will all be good for me."

“I think we've all handled this well.” He gives my back a rough slap.



They sit apart from me at dinner. The tourists sit in their respective groups. With rare exception, they bond with each other in a way that they do not with us; because we work at the camp, they assign a different role for us. This evening the Arabic speakers sit together and I sit alone relating what just happened in an 11-word SMS to David.

I am in the fire tent when they come in, silently acknowledge me and then sit apart from me and speak in Dutch. Only now do I realize how lonely the desert can be.



Back on the rock. Finally -- there's signal. Damn, no messages. I send David one more: “Please send me an SMS. I am so lonely.”

I wait for a while then finally drag myself to bed. Again, as soon as my lay my head down my nose fills with mucous and I can only breathe through my mouth. My throat dries quickly and I cough. I feel as if I'll smother. I imagine how it would feel to die this way, and am gripped with the sense of my mortality. I fear death as I've never feared it before, fearing that when it comes my life will have led to a time like this, a time of privation upon privation, devoid of sacred presence or spiritual redemption. I could die unmarried, childless, my old friends gone, my spiritual path abandoned. Finally sheer exhaustion overtakes my racing mind and I fall into a sleep of nervous dreams.



I wake at four tense, knowing there will be no more sleep for me. I find a better spot for cell reception up the hill behind my tent. David's message reads: "Love you, buddy."

I pray fajr and go down to help Mad Mahmoud make breakfast. He shrieks and caws, we dance.

I want very much to use the Internet, so I volunteer to go to the office again today, but the van leaves without me while I am getting things together in my tent. On my laptop I write a mass e-mail to friends and family telling them about how wonderful the camp is but it remains to be seen whether it's going to be a good environment for doing my writing. I do a bit of journal writing and my battery gets dangerously low. There are no electrical outlets at camp.

Elke makes an appearance and we share news. They're staying another day. There has been no conversations about what any of us are supposed to be doing, so we figure we'll clean two tents apiece in the course of the day.

First I want to shave my scalp and face. They have taken seats on the big rock as I go to use the outdoor sinks. We can see each other out of the sides of our eyes, but no contact is made. He is shirtless and has a pink towel wrapped around his head like a turban. This, my first and only sight of his torso unclothed, arouses no desire in me, and this confirms to me how the nature of this attraction is so heart-based, nearly devoid of sexual lust. Emotionally he is clad in armor, so what difference does it make how little clothing he has on.

I hear them arguing in Dutch. My nerves are a bit raw, and I feel fear as I wonder what may be going on and how it might come back to me. I seem him walking alone as if entranced, the pink makeshift turban a psychic helmet. A little later he walks up toward me without looking at me at all.

"Hey Skylar," I say nervously. He walks by without a word.

I get on with cleaning a tent, silently fuming and preparing words I'd like to tell off him with.

But then Elke asks me if I'd like to join them in a game of Kuhhandel and Skylar apologizes for having been distant this morning. "There are times when I just need the the whole world to stay away from me." Nonetheless I call him on not returning my greeting. He is surprised, says he totally failed to hear me, so successfully did he wall out the world. I tell him how angry this made me, "I'm not just anybody. I'm your brother." My anger seems to disturb him.

We play out on a large rock below the sunset view rock. Later Skylar will observe that we have found the perfect place to dodge from work, it is so well hidden from the camp.

This time I have picked up some skill at the game, and Skylar is really not doing well. It looks like I'm winning, but I make a fatal error or two and the victory goes to Elke.

We play another hand or two, Skylar regains his edge and someone starts the round of appreciations that things are getting back to normal between us. I tell them I think it will be a lot healthier for me this way, for the last of my time with them to be like this. Lounging between rounds, Skylar sits a measured distance from me, close but out of reach.

Mahmoud finds us and enlists our help preparing dinner. We fold up our hands so that we can continue the game later. I realize I have not done salat since the morning, and am about to be late for maghrib, which knowing me, likely means skipping it altogether. Baaad Muslim. Well, there I go again, my observance comes and goes in waves.

Cleaning up after dinner with Elke in the kitchen, I talk about our time in Amman and how she and Skylar had made me feel like their family. How I loved that feeling so much I couldn't tell heed the voice saying I had fallen into a trap. I guess this was the first time they had had something like this get so dramatic? No, she said, there was one time a man she'd pegged as a one-night stand fell in love with her. They'd been through this all before.

She asks if I want to finish the game we started, and I agree to meet her in the fire tent. We wait a while for Skylar to show up, then I decide I'll check my phone for messages.

I do my march over the rock, eyes glued to the phone screen as I hold it aloft. I almost stumble into Skylar, who is sitting here in silence, when an SMS comes in from David. He is going through similar heartache, having cut things off with the boy who never really opened his heart to him. He tells me to abide in love for myself. I sigh and sigh again. What excellent advice from a true friend and fellow sufferer. I used to be so tuned into that Love; where has that connection gone?

I sit next to Skylar at a respectful distance, and look off into the stars, wordlessly praying. Then I realize Skylar is meditating. Am I intruding? Well, I must have been when I was stumbling over the rock, but now I'm sitting in silence, same as him. Yes, my presence may be a distraction, but I've long adopted the attitude that distractions are inevitable when meditating and praying, and that they all come from Allah to test us, so if I allow something someone is doing to distract me, I can't ask them to stop as long as they're not directly engaging me. I do not feel moved to leave Skylar here and wait with Elke for him to finish. Right here and right now seems the right time and place to stop and do some deep searching and listening.

I observe my breath. I hear his. I return my attention to my breath with the prayer that he and I can share this space harmoniously, each being completely himself and letting the other be completely himself.

I am not meditating with a focus, I want completely empty hands, no mantra, no practice. Let mental noise be quiet in recognition of what it is, and in such recognition let higher consciousness emerge.

The Love that requires no reciprocation is here. This pain has served to expand my heart to let more in. The people and things we love in our limited way serve to prepare us to let this Love through. The expanse of the cosmos bears witness to the Love's endlessness.

After a while I lie down to swim with the stars for a bit. Then I get up to allow Skylar his solitude.

I return to the fire tent feeling charged with blessings. I tell Elke that Skylar is out meditating on the rock, and that I just sat with him for a while. She seems puzzled. Skylar soon joins us and we talk for a while about the experiences we just had. Yes, at first Skylar was distracted and a little annoyed by my presence, but then he saw he could overcome that non-acceptance, and then better return to the pursuit of Oneness. I explain why I didn't leave and am gratified to hear that Skylar didn't remain in annoyance. I try to express in turn what I experienced. I felt that Skylar and I were working in parallel, each approaching the grand Unity while maintaining the earthly separation and distance we needed. I go on a bit too long about how Skylar's presence and distance felt, and Elke gets up, about to walk out.

"What's the matter?" asks Skylar.

"I am going to let you two talk about this with each other,"

"But you don't need to go."

"Please stay with us," I add.

She sits but says "I am not comfortable when you talk like this and look at Skylar that way. I feel how much in love you are with him and it makes me feel... I don't want to say threatened... but yeah, kind of... I know I'm not threatened, but the feeling is as if I were."

Skylar and I try to reassure her. I emphasize that I know fully well that I can hope for nothing but friendship with Skylar, that I am healing from my heartache, and that tonight's experience was about being at peace with saying good-bye to him. It is a difficult conversation. I get choked up at one point, and at another point feel it is I who needs to walk out, but they call me back as we did for Elke. The Bedouins watch our drama with great puzzlement. Finally we settle down and return to our game, and when it finished with Skylar winning yet again we bid each other a warm good night.

Alone in my tent, I chant the Jerrahi wird, allowing myself the wishful thought that it's Thursday night and my fellow dervishes are chanting the same litany. No matter how much water I drink my throat remains dry and my voice cracks and rasps. At times I read the English translation, at other times I let the sacred music of the Arabic poetry carry me. When I finish the tent is charged with the spirit of the soul seeking God, but my way to sleep is disturbed by thoughts. I wonder about what came of the man who fell in love with Elke, and what, if anything, the two of them learned from the experience.