My wife and I have traveled to the world’s capitals of haggling, and, have thereby, gained a certain proficiency. We honed our skills at considerable cost and with what would seem to be significant time expense. However, the skills were worth the effort.
We traveled several times to the Middle East in the days when it was actually safe to travel to Muslim countries, including Syria. There was still a considerable measure of antagonism; we had to have two U.S. passports in order to be able to cross the Israeli border, get an Israel stamp in our passport, and be able to travel to the Muslim countries and be admitted on a passport free of Israel taint.
On one occasion we traveled down from Syria and into Jordan. After a short stay in Amman, we drove into the Negev Desert to see the wonders of Petra, and to experience the sunrise on the top of Mount Sinai. The day was hot; so, we mistakenly assumed that the desert night would be too. We began the climb at O-dark-thirty at a fifty-degree winding angle towards the top. Incidentally, there are at least four Mount Sinais around the region; this one seemed like the best for us.
This was back in the days when health permitted, and I was able to move right along. Vera was doing just as well, but a handsome and romantic Bedouin on a beautiful white camel inveigled her into riding with him on his second camel. We bade each other farewell, and I climbed briskly towards the top. The last portion of the climb was a rough-hewn stone staircase with 270 steps.
Out of breath, and in darkness equal to the bottom of a mine shaft, I felt my way like blind Bartimaeus to where I found a nice comfortable rock to sit on. By the Braille system, I determined it would seat four standard adults. I made sure I left room for my wife and wrapped my arms around myself to obtain some measure of warmth. As the darkness began to dissipate, an old man came and sat beside me.
He was wrinkled, grey, and skinny. His clothes were thin, full of holes and tears, and were woefully inadequate for the occasion. His teeth began to chatter, and his body shook with incontrollable shivering. I put my arm around him, and he snuggled up close under my wing. In the interests of transparency, let me say that—while I am not a handsome man, nor does my body habitus offer much to attract praise—I do have one useful attribute: I am warm bodied. Still, both the elderly man and I (not quite so elderly) were cold, and both of us shivered. Something had to be done.
We were on the very top of the mountain, and to the south of us was a small encampment of mercantile Bedu. I walked over to where they maintained an inviting communal fire and found that they had blankets to rent. This seemed to be a good opportunity to apply my skills at haggling—which is the favorite sport of Arabs. I asked how much; the man quoted a price. I was aghast and clasped my hands to my chest indicative of the shock of such an impossibly high asking. I turned to leave, sorrowing. My debater friend asked me to return, asserting that he might reconsider. He offered a price somewhere near to 80% of the first price. I coughed and appeared a bit faint, but I managed to counter offer a price which was exactly a quarter of the first proffer.
It was the bearded Bedu’s turn to suffer shock and to clasp his breast in response to such a confiscatory offer from me, a stranger. He told me about how destitute he, his wife, and his five children were, and how such a sale would be ruinous. Being of Christian bent, I relented and offered him a third of the original price. With deep, may I say even, theatrical reluctance, he returned with a 65% proffer. I countered with 40%. He looked stricken, but he finally offered 50%. I agreed, and I paid him what he had expected to receive at the start of our dance. There are rules to this sort of thing. First no one insults the other. Second, haggling with its ebb and flow of numbers must proceed. Finally, among friends, midway is almost always the desired result.
When the haggling was over, my newfound Bedu friend gave me a bear hug, which I returned. His friendly and portly wife and each of their five children stood in line for their hugs. Then we shared the almost mandatory small cup of a sickeningly sweet purple fruit juice as family. Muslims eschew alcohol, and I am a lifelong teetotaler; so that was convenient.
I returned to my aged friend still saving my place on our special rock and wrapped us up in the large blanket. He snuggled close to me and partook of my body heat. Shortly, Vera got off her camel and took her seat by me and snuggled under my left wing under the blanket, and the three of us were cozy waiting for the sun to peak over the brow of the mountain. Another man sat by my wife and asked her if she knew what the “miracle of Sinai” was. She said, “I suppose it was when Moses saw the burning bush.”
Our new friend replied that “no, that wasn’t the miracle. The real miracle was that Moses was led to the only place in the Sinai were there was a bush.”
At that point, a faint hint of predawn light began to appear in the east. People began flooding in and finding their own soft rocks or enough room to stand on. Before the actual sunrise, there were well over a hundred people on the mountain top. As we came to learn, they spoke 65 different languages. Then a sort of miracle happened.
The sun peaked over the edge of the mountain, and the gathered Christians began to murmur and to speak quietly in a soft polyglot babble. When the sun first showed itself in its entirety, someone, somewhere began to sing a Christian song, the melody of which was universally familiar. Almost immediately, the entire diverse congregation began to sing the same song, albeit in an incredibly large variety of tongues. It was impossible to make out the lyrics, but that did not matter. The flow of the leitmotif of the song was familiar and heart-warming. I got something in my eye and had to keep wiping it. Apparently, the same condition became generalized.
Then, another clear voice started new song—as familiar, but as foreign as the first. By the third song, a hundred people were holding hands, singing, and crying together. I was still working on whatever was in my eye, and my old friend and rock-sitting partner helped me to cry. A handsome African woman in her traditional clothing sang a hymn that expressed the feelings of the disparate crowd—I will abbreviate: “Some children see Him lily white…with tresses soft and fair. Some children see Him bronzed and brown…with dark and heavy fair. Some children see Him almond-eyed…with skin of yellow hue…Some children see Him dark as they, Sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray…and oh, they love Him, too!” There was something like an hour that passed of impromptu–but seemingly as if from a great unseen chorister—singing before the crowd began to filter off the mountain.
That freezing night, surrounded by strangers—many of them as poor as my seat-mate (whom I learned was an Armenian), was a singular moment of perfect peace and real and unforgettable love. I suppose my recollection of the exact events has dimmed, but I have not lost a scintilla of the emotional impact of that truly blessed time.
