…By noontime, as I was climbing down the mountain from the same path and reapproached that little village in the narrow valley, a jovial Bedouin man, standing by his garden’s threshold, invited me to his home. His name was Ramadan. He was one of the 15-20 patres familias who had created this heavenly oasis amid this inhospitable, divine environment.
We perched in a shady little corner of his garden, under a thin, fluttering cloth, stretched by strings tied on his clay hut and an acacia tree, and we engaged in conversation, using a mixture of simple English and Greek, gestures, and a little pantomime.
He was the father of thirteen children. One of them – his eldest daughter, I think – a beautiful, tall and lean, scarfed girl around twenty, came out from the house and shyly served us with coffee, tea, bread, and olives. Another one, Fatima, a little girl of about twelve years, not a bit shy, was constantly sitting opposite me, peering at me intently with her coal-black eyes.
At some point, Ramadan requested me to stand up to show me around his garden. He flauntingly exhibited various vegetables, lots of olive trees, peach trees, and other horticultural plants that surrounded his house.
Sheep and goats were carelessly grazing on whatever little grass grew in the crannies of the earth. Two donkeys had a lazy day off, slumbering on the ground. A burly camel, fallen on her knees, was indolently ruminating her brunch, observing us with her big, passive eyes. A dozen hyraxes were running aimlessly here and there, up and down the branches they had inside the large, improvised cage where they were imprisoned.
There also was a large cat family who perceived that garden as home. The kittens were incessantly frolicking, scuffling with each other. The mothers waited for lunch: some patiently, standing still and staring at us imploringly; others impatiently, meowing complainingly. And the obese father had occupied a cool corner, immersed in sweet sleep.
“All did alone,” Ramadan told me in broken Greek, boastingly displaying his palms.
“Nice place you have here,” I said and explained that I just yesterday had come from Cairo.
“Ah, aah – hubbub,” he demonstrated this word with gestures and sound-mimicking. “Me never Cairo. Cathrine most far, few times,” he concluded in English, adding a tone of disdain in the utterance of the big city’s name.
The story you’ve just read is part of my Real Stories of Real People collection, where I recount encounters with remarkable characters I’ve met on the road. You can read the whole series on my blog here. And if you’d like to take them with you on your e-reader or as a physical book—and support my work—you can get the book on Amazon for the price of a coffee.
