Abundance in the Desert - 12/23 - 12/25/25

Word of the Day: Abundance

Definition: A very large quantity of something; more than enough.

The Experience: What came next did not inspire immediate confidence. A run-down taxi led to a run-down jeep, which led to a run-down store, run by, what appeared to be, a run-down business owner. Each interaction felt like another step away from predictable. I found myself wondering where, exactly, we were going, and whether we should be going there at all. There were quite a few sideways glances between Patrick and I that silently said, “What in the hell are we doing?” After forty-five minutes of watching the main road disappear, that uncertainty only grew.

And then we arrived in the Wadi Rum desert.

It was startlingly quiet, no engines, no voices, no distant hum of anything. Just wind moving across sand.

We climbed massive boulder formations and sat in silence as the sun dropped behind the mountains, turning the rocks shades of red, gold, and purple that no photograph could ever show. 

Later, we gathered for a Bedouin meal. We stood in a wide circle as a giant cement cap, buried beneath layers of sand, was swept clean and lifted away. Someone explained that the cook was a professional Bedouin cook. I kept coming back to that phrase. These were not words I would have naturally put together, professional and Bedouin cook, especially as I watched sand being brushed off what would soon be our dinner.

Three feet below the surface, a pit had been dug into the ground. From it, two men lifted a three-tiered black metal stand heavy with food, the scent of spices rising immediately into the air. At one point, one of the boys stumbled in the sand, and there was a sudden loud uproar, men shouting in Arabic. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear: Don’t get sand in the food! 

I remember thinking, Was I really going to eat this? Was Oliver? There was no convenience store. No vending machine. No Uber Eats waiting if we changed our minds. And yet, the meal was extraordinary! Fresh, carefully prepared, seasoned with hand-ground spices, cooked slowly underground with ancient knowledge. 

After dinner, we sat on cushions spread across the ground, and talked politics, of all things. Not loudly. Not argumentatively. Just ideas passed around like the tea cups we drank from. 

When night came and we walked back to our tent, it was the blackest of black. We could not see one step in front of us. Stars filled every dark space. They were uncountable. There was no television, no internet, nothing competing with the quiet. 

Our host, Eid, and his nephews ran the camp. Eid was gregarious and full of energy, the kind of person who lights up a space the moment he enters it. He was incredibly intelligent and deeply knowledgeable about the world, but in a way that was entirely unassuming. Ideas surfaced naturally in his conversation. I am ashamed to admit that I did not expect the depth of insight that came so easily from him. I’ve since thought about these assumptions, about education, about sophistication, about where knowledge is “supposed” to come from. Eid needed no credentials to prove his understanding of the world. It was evident in the way he spoke, listened, laughed, and welcomed his guests. 

His nephews moved through the space with the same ease, preparing meals, guiding guests, offering tea. And while we paid to be here, it didn’t feel like hospitality, it felt like this was normal.

Our second day in Wadi Rum unfolded with a stunning sunrise from our bed. We ate communally, then set out on a jeep tour across the desert, stopping at different locations along the way. At Bedouin camps, we drank tea and communicated through pictures, hand gestures, and laughter. Language became a game of improv. Everyone was thankfully patient. 

At one stop, people noticed Oliver was cold, and without hesitation, they wrapped him in a bedouin jacket simply because he needed it. Later, during the jeep tour, our guide, who spoke very little English, showed us how they wash their hands in the desert. He gathered arjoram leaves, crushed them with a stone, and then rubbed his hands together until they released a natural lather. Soap made from the land itself. No explanation required. Just demonstration, then a smile.

Again and again, we were welcomed into spaces that from the outside barely looked like homes. Inside, they were warm and cozy, sticks and blankets forming walls, a fire burning at the center, tea offered before we even had time to ask.

At one point, our driver encountered a camel herder. He opened the cooler in the jeep, pulled out water and a Coke, and handed them over without ceremony. Soon after, sixty or seventy camels came trotting past us across the sand. 

If that moment wasn’t juxtaposition, I’m not sure what is. Minutes later, we went sand sledding next, and then being pulled behind the jeep on a sled, laughing and gripping tight as the desert rushed past us. Toward the end of our day, we climbed a massive sand dune and ran and tumbled down, giggling the entire way.

That night, the stars returned. And in the morning, I watched the sun rise as three camels and their herder moved from tiny specks on the horizon toward our tent. We said goodbye to Eid and his nephews, climbed on our camels, then quite literally rode off into the sun. There is something magical about that place.

Nothing about the journey there suggested what awaited us. The path was unassuming, even a bit scary, at first. But what looked sparse from the outside revealed itself as abundant, not in things, but in generosity, care, and connection.

There was always enough tea.

Enough food.

Enough patience to communicate without shared words.

Enough attention to notice when a child was cold.

Enough kindness to give without expecting anything in return.

It made me think about how easily we mistake polish for value. How quickly we trust what looks official and ignore what looks worn. I used to think extraordinary experiences would look extraordinary from the start. Now I think some of the most powerful moments arrive disguised as inconvenience or doubt. One thing I still wonder is how often we turn away from something meaningful simply because it doesn’t look the way we expect it to.