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His flapping white robe and red checked keffiyeh stood out in the shimmering heat as we approached. Where had he come from? Where on earth was he going? Purple shadowed ranges soared over barren miles of red ochre desert, with only our lonely stretch of road and his slow walking, solitary figure hinting at human habitation. We pulled up. His weathered face lit up and eyes shone with appreciation. No English? ?هل تتحدث العربية No Arabic. Human connection however triumphed as he hopped into the back seat, broad smiling and indicating the way to his Bedioun home. Wadi Rum - the hauntingly beautiful, wilderness space of nomadic tent dwellers, searing sun-baked rock faces and silent, star studded nights. No wonder, we thought at first glimpse, that Lawrence of Arabia had fallen for this dramatic landscape and its people. Were the ancestors of these Bedioun families we were about to meet, the same ones who galloped with Lawrence across sandy steppes? Had firesides passed down tinged memories of adventures with this fiery, compassionate yet mission-doomed Englishman? Our car swung left and came to a halt beside a group of goat hair tents, staked in the sand. Chickens and children ran freely as we stepped out into the glaring midday sun. Cautious eyes peered out from behind the dark-tanned tent flap as our host arm swept us into his family, Children, wide eyed, coy and laughing behind their hands, gathered to catch a glimpse of these hot faced, strangely attired visitors. Colourful scarved women, sitting cross legged, shyly tooth grinned and added tiny twigs to their tent centred family hearth. Welcoming us with warmth, fire and food, they nodded for us to sit. We folded into their midday meal and, for a brief moment, into their lives . Rapid shouting and gesticulating brought freshly laid eggs, goat's milk yogurt from hanging skins, grainy flour, and water. Was there a spring nearby or were they dependent on the large water trucks we had seen in this seemingly inhospitable place? Brightly yoked eggs were whipped into frothy omelettes, smooth white yoghurt stirred and offered. Orange flames flickered and leapt as metal heated, pitta pockets puffed and browned, and chatter and creased laugh lines danced between us. Body language was no barrier as we ate, laughed, and shared. Bread - the universal nourisher of the body. A millennia of connectedness bound up in that one meal, through generations, lands, nations, peoples. We were strangers yet no longer. Bread - full, golden, ripe-eared grain speaking of the richness and depth of human community. Bread - back breaking harvest, muscle strained pounding, wind winnowing, kneading and rising - storytelling tales of human effort and endeavour, survival and flourishing. Pitta, yoghurt, omelette - a simple offering, a most memorable meal. One that lingers in your mind and stays in your experience. Breaking bread - the connection between souls. Community, generosity, barrier breaking communion. The children had warmed to us, poking their giggling faces through the tent flap then running away with screams of delight. After our meal they joined in our impromptu games, enjoying our attempts to speak their language and mime our way into their conversations. The afternoon sun beat down as we hopped back into the car, waved our goodbyes, and set off for our original destination. We somehow felt, however, that we had already arrived.