"The Boy in Petra" by Ghufran Salih
“the boy in petra”, a short story
The sun was peeking through the red canyons the nestled Al Khazna in their stone, reminding the boy of the god awful heat he was standing in for the last few hours. He doesn’t own a watch but he could tell from the angled positioning of the sun that it was no longer 8 a.m., when his shift began.
Tourists continue to pour in from the canyon trails, their eyes widening at the sight of the great temple of the fallen Nabatean Kingdom. They all entered through the “great” Siq gate and walk approximately 30 minutes to reach Al Khazna. Every day he could hear the loud, raspy voices of the foreign tour guides explaining the history of how men carved the tombs with their bare hands.
As if these people didn’t know that a rock in anyone’s hand can manipulate another and create shapes.
The voices of what felt like 100 tour guides can be heard echoing around the canyon. He could pick out a few of the languages they spoke: Arabic, English, Spanish, Indonesian, Italian, and French, but there were some that he didn’t know. One trick that one of the boys told him about is listening to the languages that you don’t know and pick out a few sounds to remember, the next few times you hear it you just have to pay attention to what the people look like and how they’re speaking. After a few months, you may be able to piece together what language it is and speak it back to them.
The boy spoke six languages. He could talk to American tourists, British tourists, Indonesian tourists, Arab tourists, Spanish tourists, Italian tourists, and, whenever they bothered to respond, the French tourists. And he didn’t even have to go to school to learn those languages.
He learned by taming the donkeys that people ride up and down the ancient (and bumpy) roads of Petra. Or horses. Or camels. It depended on the day. He learned by selling trinkets with his father on the side of the Petra Theater. He learned by walking up to strangers and trying to sell them postcards that he had been holding for hours and hours. He learned by talking, it was the way of the business.
Sometimes people would talk to him in Arabic but he would try to talk to them in their language, for their ease but also for his own practice. He loved talking to people. Learning about where they come from, why they’re in Petra, and how much they know about his life here.
Petra is a part of his identity; he is Bedouin after all. Living in Petra is seeing all of the stars every night, smelling fresh, untainted air, waking up to your family making breakfast together, and looking forward to coming to work. He was happy with his life.
Later in the day, he started working with the camels near Al Khazna, tending to their food and water for his cousin so he could eat and pray, when four girls came near them. They were staring at the camel as if they had never seen it before, mesmerized by the haywan chewing grains. This intrigued him.
He walked towards them and tapped a girl with short black hair and silver earrings lining all up and down her ear. Garib.
“Miss, you dropped something,” he said.
She made three motions. She looked away from the camel staring at the boy’s face, her eyes widened, then immediately looked down and around her feet. “Oh no, what did I drop?”
He paused.
“Your smile.”
Her friends all laughed. She looked at the boy for a second before her pale face broke out into a smile.
“There it is!” he said, joining in their laughter.
“That was good,” one of her friends said, she wore a colorful scarf around her head and had dark brown skin. Her other friends, a shorter girl with light eyes and curly brown hair, and a very tall girl with short straight hair and a long face, nodded in agreement. Where are they from?
“Where are you from?” he asked looking at the group of them. They were dressed like average tourists but none of them looked the same.
“We’re from America,” the colorful scarf girl answered in Arabic, “We are studying Arabic in Amman.”
“Oh in Amman?” he responded in English, looking directly at the girl with the earrings and a smile, “Which do you like better, Amman or Petra?”
“Well, there is a McDonald’s in Amman...”
“I can make you food better than McDonalds right here,” he said, “And I will use the meat of Aliaan.” He grabs the leash of the camel and clicks his tongue for the camel to sit.
The girls gave looks of horror to the boy.
“I’m joking,” he says releasing the leash, “This one isn’t ready to eat yet.”
They laugh.
In the distance, a man calls for someone. From the way they respond, the boy gathers that it is one of them.
“We have to go now,” the short girl says, “But it was really nice meeting you.”
“Are you interested in postcard?” he asks, “ I will only charge you a smile and 50 piasters.”
They all think for a moment. The girl with the colorful scarf pulls out a small purse and hands a 50 piastre coin to the boy. He takes and reaches behind the camel for a booklet of postcards.
“Shukran!” she says.
“You’re welcome!” he responds.
They begin to walk away but he had to ask, “How long are you in Petra?” He is looking at the girl with the earrings.
She smiles, “We’re only here for a few hours, we’re going back to Amman.”
“Will you come back?” he asks.
“Maybe one day,” she said. He smiles and returns his attention to the camels, waving goodbye to the girls as they walk away.
Thousands of people walk through Petra every day. They stop, take pictures, talk to their guides, buy trinkets, ride on camels and donkeys and horses, eat at the coffee shops along the pavement, and see the homes of the Nabateans.
Then they leave, going back to their loud and crowded cities. But the boy doesn’t leave because this is his home. He doesn’t have to take pictures or buy trinkets. The memories of the red stones and dust falling from the canyons are etched into his mind like his native language. His friends are here, his family is here, his happiness is a mineral in the rocks that hold his heritage and history.
He will always be the boy in Petra.
