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ImageA is a young bedouin. 

He’s smart and quick and very generous. He taught himself English while working in an airport carrying luggage and glimpsing at a world of incomprehensible men and women in flip flops and sun hats.

A likes peach juice (and always shares it with whoever happens to be around), owns a little house and 10 sheep and wants to know about the world. Europe is particularly baffling.

‘Where do European men meet their women?’ he asks, looking in the side mirror and struggling to supress an embarrassed smile.

“Well, it depends. At work, at university maybe. Parties. How about you? How did you meet your wife?’

“Well, I didn’t. Not before the wedding.’

‘That’s a bit risky. What if you didn’t like her?”

‘Well, I knew everything about her. I’d talked to her brothers. And her father. Her whole village knew her. They told me about her.’

 “Ok. But you still didn’t know her personally. That’s brave.”

“No, it’s not. You trust a complete stranger. You know nothing about their family, taste, history, health or good name. You just see them. That’s a bit risky.’

Oh. I never thought of it this way. In retrospect, maybe I should have consulted a few villagers here and there:)
I finished the rest of my peach juice in silence.