Meeting the "Bedouins"

When we lived overseas my family would travel often to visit my dad’s family in Beirut, Lebanon.

One summer when we were there my parents thought it would be great to go on an adventure and look for “real live” Bedouins. Bedouins are desert nomads who generally live in tents and herd sheep or camels or some other animal. It’s kind of a stereotype based on movies and books, but there are still some people who live like that.

In any case my parents herded myself and my younger brothers in my grandfather’s old beat up yellow Mercedes. In Lebanon everyone drives  a Mercedes, but these are diesel cars from the 50′s that are not like the cars the rich and famous drive.

We drive up to the mountains and my mom was thinking we could maybe find one of the famous water wells on the way. There are some of these scattered throughout the mountain where you can bring your bottles and fill them with fresh water that is literally sourced from the mountain itself.

As we putter up the winding mountain we keep our eyes peeled for “Bedouins” and then as luck would have it we find a large tent on the side of the road in a large green field.

“Let’s go see them, maybe they will roast a lamb for us.” My dad says. My parents seem to think that somehow randomly going up to a tent in the middle of nowhere will bring about a welcoming party. They talk about how Bedouins are known to be friendly and kind and how they’ll literally give you the shirt off their back if you compliment what they’re wearing. I know of these traditions, because within Arab culture, if you see something you like and point it out, you might actually end up being forced to accept it as a gift.

I’m listening to their romanticized tales and I  refuse to get out of the car.”I’m just going to stay in here, we don’t even know these people, what if they shoot at us or something?”

My mom is as excited as my dad and helps to egg him on, “Oh maybe they’ll see us and want to have a big celebration. I’m sure they have some Shaikh (chief of the tribe) and they’ll just have to welcome us.”

We see someone peeking out of the tent and then eventually a young man emerges. He couldn’t have been more than 17 years old. He looks  at the car skeptically.

My dad gets out and introduces himself and says how we’re visiting and want to meet some Bedouins. The boy seems confused by the request but  goes into the tent and then comes back out and motions for us to go inside.

Sitting on bright colorful rugs on the floor are two older women with green tattoos on their faces.

One must have been the boy’s mother and the other his grandmother. They are expressionless and yet they invite us to come sit down.

My dad starts to talk and say how we’re visiting from Saudi Arabia. The boy then interrupts my dad and says, “You have a Lebanese license plate.”

My dad tells the boy we’re just borrowing my grandfather’s car to sight-see.

They have small talk and then the boy goes and gets out a little coffee cup used to drink Turkish coffee.  His mom lights some coals on a small portable grill type contraption and heats up the coffee. The smell is delicious, but I glance nervously and notice there is only ONE cup. The boy puts the cup in a bucket of water and rinses it and then he fills it up with the hot coffee. The boy then takes a sip and passes it to my dad.

Now, if you know my dad, he NEVER drinks coffee let alone the super strong Turkish coffee. He’s all into his herbal teas and health food. But I could tell he was a little nervous and so he took it and drank from it and passed it to my mom. The communal cup made it’s way back to the Bedouin ladies and the boy until it was finished.

My dad starts to ask them about their life and how they live.

“Where is your Shaikh?”

“He went to town with the rest of the family because we’re building a house.” The boy’s grandmother quips.

Apparently these Bedouins were not as enthralled by their nomadic lifestyle as my parents were.

My dad then asks them if they’re Nawar which I don’t think he realized would be SUCH an insult.

Nawar are typically referred to as the beggars in the streets of Lebanon who may have been Bedouins at some point, but now have just migrated to the city as beggars and vagabonds.

The women gasp and the grandmother starts going on and on about “We’re not Nawar, we are respectable, we have a Shaikh, he even went to Saudia Arabia.”

Then in an attempt to change the conversation my dad asks if they have a medicine man. I can tell he really wants them to be like the Bedouins of stories. But nope the old lady again dashes his dreams.

“No, we go to a doctor in the city just like everyone else!”

Our visit is finally over and everyone exchanges the greeting of  “Peace be with you” and we’re on our way.

As we leave my dad still doesn’t seem fazed that the Bedouins aren’t exactly what he expected. “Did you see how smart they are? The boy noticed the license plate right away! He had a very sharp eye for detail.”

When we got back to my grandparent’s house and told them what happened,  my dad’s family was floored. They couldn’t believe that we attempted such a thing. In their world the Bedouins and the city folk don’t mix.

At the time I was so embarrassed that my parents were living in a fantasy world, but now I look back at the event as something that was funny but educational at the same time. Although the people we met were planning to leave the lifestyle they’d lived for generations in order to build a house in the city, there was something so peaceful about that tent.

It makes me think that everyone needs a little time away from the busy world every now and then.

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