Glamping in Wadi Rum
“My name is Mohammed Ali, but not like the boxer, I am a peaceful man. I don’t like sports,” the musician introduces himself and the oud comes to life under his practised fingers and starts to sing — a mournful sound at first but then it brightens and carries up to the billowing satin of the open-side tent.
A tiny kitten crosses his path and meows in appreciation, or hunger, as he teases the beautiful twang from the strings. Each chord finishes with an upward inflection, warbling under his fingers, creating a mysterious and inviting harmony.
His eyes remain open but unseeing. I realise then Mohammed is blind.
He cannot see me smile; cannot know what the reaction is from our group as we scoop up great globs of hummus and lamb with flatbread and listen intently in front of him.