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I hear the last of the guests giggling as they stumble in the dark towards their sleeping tents. With no social media a dozen miles deep inside the vast Wadi Rum desert, it seems the rekindling of the lost art of personal interactions we’ve enjoyed this evening has had a vibrant and enduring effect. Mahmood - or Moo Moo as he prefers – is repositioning the lounge cushions and pillows, and collects up the chess pieces from our last game. Despite losing to me twice tonight, his mood is cheerful. He is keen to develop his skill and takes losses humbly. I tell him how much his game has already improved since my arrival a week ago at the Bedouin Camp he runs with his brothers. His narrow face, framed by an unbound mane of frizzed black hair lights with a smile of white-white teeth. “Maybe tomorrow I will win,” he says. I smile and nod. “Yes. Maybe.” With chores done, we lay back and relax on the blankets that are to be our bed for the evening and sip a glass of Bedouin tea. Outside it is crisp and cold; another good night to sleep under the stars, but the warmth of the main tent is inviting, and I’m tired and comfortable and lack the motivation to move. The deep soundlessness of the dark desert and the mesmerising dance of glowing embers in the fire pit draws me into a reflective mood. Random snippets of conversations flicker through my mind: the earnest young Lebanese activist and her passionate discussion of the treatment of Syrian refugees in Lebanon. The Italian paediatrician who seems barely old enough to have graduated high school yet was already a seasoned birther; the young Canadian who has spent the last six months soloing her way through Africa. Then a random memory of something Moo Moo said earlier pops into mind and sparks my curiosity. “Have you ever thought about going to visit any of the home countries of your guests?” He thinks for a minute and then shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I love being here in the Wadi Rum. It is my home, and I have no interest in leaving.” My first reaction is one of surprise. Meeting people from so many different countries only adds fuel to my passion for travel, and I assumed he too would be eager to visit foreign places if he had the chance. And then I realise the bias of my thinking. Of course, Moo Moo is not me. Why should he care about travelling the world? Today we conversed with guests from 5 different countries, each with their own stories expressing their unique perspectives of life in their homeland. Mahmood talked with them about religion and politics and the history of the Bedouins like a seasoned veteran despite only being 24 years old. His enthusiasm for knowledge of the world is matched only by his passion for his beloved desert home. He doesn’t need to travel the world to learn about life. It comes willingly to his door every single day. I ponder this revelation. Rather than a life filled with concrete and the crush of humanity, the Wadi Bedouin’s world is soft sand and glorious red sunsets glowing on impossibly majestic rock formations. They hurtle their Toyota 4WDs into town to collect tourists and goods for their camps, then tear back out in the vast nothingness – tiny coloured motes absorbed into the endless expanse of blue sky and pink sand. It’s taken me a few days to accept the unfamiliarity of being surrounded by such silence. The emptiness has been a kind of detox - I feel I’m coming off an addiction to noise and the relentless pace and anxiousness of my ‘normal’ western life. I glance at Moo Moo. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. Is he thinking about what we’ve just discussed? Or is he organising in his mind the things he has to take care of tomorrow? I’m starting to comprehend the core of peacefulness that gives birth to his thoughts and flavours his view of life. “Yes, my friend,” I reply, “I completely understand.”