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Jordan: Nuts
About Hospitality
Author: Rob Wood - 1997
"Oh shit, I'm allergic
to nuts," came the hopeless and almost pitiful whine from Paul
when our dinner arrived. Luckily our Palestinian host was out of
earshot and his wife, who had spent most of the afternoon cooking
peanut chicken on a bed of couscous, couldn't speak a word of English.
A long-term refugee to Jordan from the Palestinian conflict, Salim
had invited us to dinner at his house, after we had finalised arrangements
for him to provide the meals for the members of the archaeological
dig down the road.
"What the hell do
you want me to do?" I whispered back to Paul.
"I can't eat it
man, my head will blow up like a football if I do," he said.
"Just pick 'em out
of the chicken for God's sake, you don't want to offend them!"
I retorted.
I had read somewhere
that Arabs will get pretty upset if you offend their sense of hospitality
and Salim seemed like a proud man. He was a wild looking character
with one eye missing and was never to be seen without a grotty-looking
red baseball cap plastering down whatever hair he had remaining.
He was at the same time quite animated in his emotions whilst seeming
very conscious of formality.
"Is there problem?"
came the broken English of Salim, as he leaned forward expectantly
with his arms folded. "No problem", I said beaming my
flashy whites in a broad smile. Looking straight at Salim, I nudged
Paul with my elbow and whispered out the side of my mouth, "Eat
it!"
Paul smiled at Salim
and let out a wince. "Um… I am allergic to nuts - they
make me quite sick."
"Hmm" - Salim
leaned back in his chair, with his arms still folded.
Oh shit - now he's pissed.
Suddenly, our host sprang
forward grabbing the piece of chicken that Paul had picked up to
animate his excuse. With the morsel firmly between his grimy fingers
he started madly brushing off the nuts with his spare hand, before
shoving it back at Paul. "There!" he said.
Paul looked towards me
with quite a startled expression on his face as if to ask, "What
do I do now?"
I nodded at him, intimating
he should take a bite.
Bingo! He chowed down
on the leg. Well, not exactly 'chowed,' so much as a tentative nibble,
but it seemed we were off the hook with Salim who started smiling
again.
Meanwhile I had finished
my second piece of chicken. The two other Westerners in the room
had also had their fair share.
Three Americans and I
as the token Aussie, made up the Western contingent, while Salim,
his two sons and his good friend, Mohammad Ali, came in to bat for
the Arab team. As we were to find out, the day's business negotiations
had not yet concluded.
Paul was looking a little
green.
"So archaeologists,
you like ancient things?" came Salim's question.
"Um - yeah,"
answered Don, the head of the dig.
"I have some ancient
things," said Salim.
"Really?" Don
inquired politely.
Salim pushed his young
son who fled from the room, returning in about 20 seconds with two
hand loads of trinkets.
"How much do you
think these are worth?"
Oh dear - I didn't like
where this was heading, but I was intrigued by what he had. There
was a Roman-era finger ring with a piece of glass in the claws that
would look nice in my collection - it even looked authentic! I picked
it up to take a closer look.
"Um - we're not
allowed to buy antiquities in Jordan," said Don looking at
me with eyes of death.
I quickly put the ring
back on the table, suitably chastised.
Salim turned to me saying,
"How much do you think for that?"
Uh-oh - time to back-peddle.
"Oh, I wouldn't know, Salim."
I looked into the distance,
as I had observed the Arab habit when they wished not to be pressed
on an issue. It seemed to work.
Mohammad Ali piped up.
"How will you move the large pile of old dirt on the site?"
"Ahh - not really
sure," answered Don.
"I can get you front-end-loader
- very cheap hire."
Don's eyes lit up. So
much for the delicate art of archaeology.
Muhamad Ali and Don retired
to the next room to sort out the finer points of the front-end-loader
deal. The rest of us continued with the final bites of the main
meal and more small talk. Since the beginning of the meal I had
devoured close to two birds worth of chicken, and I was just about
full. Luckily there was still plenty to go around, but I decided
to forgo further gluttony.
Five minutes later Salim's
wife emerged from the kitchen with dessert. She placed in front
of us a huge plate of slices of honey-covered pistachios. I looked
questioningly at Paul. He looked at me with a look of horror. I
began to laugh.
Author: Rob Wood
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