We stay up late into the night packing and our wake up call is early. We place our luggage outside our room door at 6:00 A.M and are onboard the busses by 7:00 A.M. for a full days tour, via the Dead Sea and onto the airport. This tour is not part of the Young Living tour. We have each paid an additional $100 for todays experience. It will be over 48 hours before I sleep again in a real bed. I doze until our first stop at the town of Madaba, to visit the Virgin Mary Church and our group is escorted up hill to the church. The street that we follow is lined with enticing shops and Stephanie, Sandy and I hope that we will have time on our own later to explore. The mosaic floor, a map of the biblical lands, discovered in 1896 is the treasure. Sections of the mosaic are missing and although I wish to understand the historical significance of it all, my biblical knowledge is also fragmented.
Although we have time to enjoy the church, we are unduly hurried back through town and onto the buses. We return along the same colorful street; lined with many unique shops but when I stop to admire a tasseled camel blanket, I am hurried on by the commanding voice of our tour guide. The merchant at this shop door hisses or whispers to me, and I pause to comprehend. He tells me that the the tours won’t allow us to shop with the local merchants because they will not get their commission. His price for the camel blanket is extremely reasonable; a fraction of what I priced them at in Petra. I wish for time to explore the possibilities, but our group has left me far behind and regrettably, I slink away, towards the bus and onto our next destination.
Within 10 minutes our buses pull into a large parking lot and I know immediately that this “Tile Factory” is a controlled tourist shop. The cavernous shop is the size of most Costcos and after peering inside, I balk at the entering. I have an uncontrollable gut reaction which I verbalize to the stunned tour guide; exclaiming that I do not want to be here and refusing to enter. I announce that I am going to leave and go drink a Turkish coffee somewhere. A handsome Bedouin man takes my arm, offering me turkish coffee within the shop. Stephanie and Sandy are more tolerant and urge me to come with them, but I make an about face and march back into the parking lot. I pace the parking lot and walk to the gated perimeter. We are far outside the town; a two lane highway stretches in both directions. There is nothing of remote interest outside of these gates, but I leave the confines of the tile factory and walk down the country road. I am fuming! A beautiful orchard is across the highway and after looking both ways with not a car in sight, I cross over and stroll into the grove. Becoming aware of another’ presence, I look behind me to see the security guard from the “Tile Shop” following me. He is congenial when he asks me where I am going and I blurt out my dissatisfaction about being here. In retrospect, I know that he did not understand my angst and anger at being held captive in this place. He walks with me into the grove, his machine gun slung casually over his shoulder. He asks me why I don’t want to go into the shop and I try to explain. He proudly points to a simple walled compound beside the shop and tells me that he lives there. I imagine that as tourists we support the lifestyle that he is so proud of. I tell him that I want to drink coffee and with a glimmer of understanding, he points directly across the road to a tiny shack; a 10 x 10 wood structure with a tin roof. One lone man stands behind a counter void of goods. Immediately grasping that this is the local cafe, I practically jog back to the tourist shop; yank Stephanie away from her shopping and the cup of coffee that she balances in her hand and usher her across the road to the cafe. “My” security guard is still with me; somewhat bewildered at my actions, but still smiling. I order two Turkish coffees from the man behind the makeshift counter who asks if I want milk and sugar? These queries are mimed when he opens a tiny refrigerator, with a single can of condensed milk inside. He pours the heavy and sweet condensed liquid into both of our cups. There are no chairs or tables, but Stephanie and I take our two cups of coffee outside and sit upon rocks adjoining the cafe. The owner immediately, brings two milk crates outside, tipping them over and offering them to us for seating. Stephanie and I reposition ourselves upon the crates and proceed to drink the rich and delicious Turkish coffee.
Our extended stop here has put us behind schedule. We have been here well over an hour. Several in our group made large purchases and the powers to be allowed them as much time as needed to part with their money.