When
we’re out, we’re happy to be mistaken for Jordanians, Syrians, Turks, or (as a
last resort) Canadians—because everybody likes Canadians. So I suffer my abaya
to slap my ankles while I wander. I bear the desert heat in my black polyester.
I swap my bad hair days for bad headscarf days—windy days are the worst, in
case you were wondering.
Last
week we explored the hill country around Ta’if, a nearby fertile area with
ancient agricultural roots. Ta’if is home to a population of indigenous
baboons. We met a group of them when we came to a roadblock on the way to Ta’if
and had to stop to figure out an alternate route.
We
watched the baboons from the car, because you never know when one of those guys
is going to realize you’re not a baboon and rip your face off or steal your
baby or something. And when you’re a mom, you think about things like this.
The
kids were alternately fascinated and repulsed by the baboons. They liked
watching the mothers with their young but were disturbed by all of the bare red
behinds.
We
wanted some pictures, so we threw some banana peels to the baboons. Joey expected
the baboons to turn up their noses at our garbage, but the peels turned out to
be food worth arguing over. The winner, predictably, was the baboon sheikh. He
was the biggest and meanest of the group, swatting away the young ones when
they came to beg for scraps.
Harsh
as their environment was, I don’t think the females in the group minded the ill
temper of their leader. His ill temper is likely part of what makes him a good
protector for them and their babies. Gentle, peace-loving males aren't so prised in their culture as they are in mine.
As
the sun began to sink into the west, we decided to stop at a park of sorts,
where the locals were paying to ride 4-wheelers and ponies and camels. Events
like this are still to be found in countries where parents don’t sue people
every time their 4-year-old has a head-on collision with a 16-year-old on a
4-wheeler. Halen was super excited to join the mayhem. But he was definitely the white boy on the playing field, making conservative turns while the boys and girls around him sped and spun and swerved with abandon.
Marveling
at how the girls managed to keep their veils on and dared to show their ankles
on the 4-wheelers, I pulled out my paper sack of coal-roasted corn on the cob.
It tasted kind of like chewey, dry, ash-covered corn (because that’s precisely
what it was), but it didn’t matter because I was being Zen with the moment. And
the black ash flakes from the corn were being Zen with my teeth.
A guy
came by with a horse and some ponies, and I smiled, but he didn’t smile back.
Maybe because he felt bad about abusing his animals, in the name of
entertaining children, in the name of making a buck to feed his family. Or
maybe because I had black stuff in my teeth. I stopped smiling, to make him
feel better, and then I paid him to take my girls for a ride.
The
pony guy introduced us to the camel guy, who also abused his animal, in the
name of entertaining children, in the name of making a buck to feed his family.
He got a buck out of us too, and then he introduced us to the carriage guy. And
the whole evening went on and on like this until finally we were exhausted
enough to take our leave of the locals we had become one with and then head
back to the hotel.
There,
as I took off my abaya and head scarf that had undoubtedly convinced the locals
that I was indigenous, I realized that my son had been walking around all day
in a red T-shirt that sported a big Mickey Mouse and the words “All American.” I
was disturbed. You would think that as a mom, I would notice things like what radical
nationalism my kids are advertising on their clothing. You would also think that
as a mom, I would double-check that my son had packed a change of clothes for
our over-night trip.
You
would think. But you know what, although clothing can disguise us, it can’t
black out our differences. Far though we might wander into the wilderness, we
are still Americans, looking out at the world from within our safe(ish) and
shiny(ish) car. We’re both fascinated and disturbed by what we see—partly
because it’s different and partly because it’s eerily similar. And I suppose that
the locals are both disturbed and fascinated by us.
Many might
disagree, but I think differences are okay. God created the world by setting up
differences between earth and sea, between light and darkness, between sun and
stars and moon. The whole world needs differences. Really, they’re what makes
the world beautiful. Ignoring or trying to break down our differences is in
some sense a transgression against nature. I’m content to wear disguises when
necessary, but they don't stop me from looking on with wonder at the world I
see.