Zaid caresses his misbaha, Islamic prayer beads, between his thumb and forefinger, tenderly wrapping them around his fingers. I catch his glance in the rear-view mirror, his mouth beaming into a warm smile as he utters his tasbih for evening prayer. A golden blaze floods the valley as another Ramadan day dies into night. Zaid's emerald beads twinkle in his green eyes as we drive into the sun. "Here, this is Jordan." Zaid tosses his bead-swathed hand out of the window gesturing towards distant hills dotted with prickly shrub trees. "That way, Palestine and Israel." He turns his whole body to face me in the back, casually forgetting that he's driving. Now that he's facing me, his expression seems different. A tinge of sadness has replaced the sparkling beads in his eyes; a sense of longing fills his voice. "Over there, Syria - my home." * Earlier, Ajloun was abuzz with preparation for Iftar, the evening meal which ends the day's fasting during Ramadan. Skinned goats dangled lifelessly outside butcher shops; the metallic, bloody smell of fresh meat promising the end of another day's fasting. Families spilled from the thronging streets, past market vendors and into the mosque. Mixes spices wafted into a sickly cocktail with petrol fumes in the air. Ajloun Castle, perched high above the town on a rocky cliff, drifted into a silhouette as the sun dropped behind it. I stood among the chaos considering just how I'd managed to miss the last bus back to Amman when I noticed a plump figure in a bright checked shirt leaning against a rusty car. With that same kindly grin, he waved me over and pointed to the small space in his car. "Amman, yes?" Soon, I was lodged in the back of Zaid's weather-battered Kia, zipping along the sinuous mountain roads towards Amman. There were no seatbelts but I was safely wedged in my place. On my left was Youssef, a phone salesman with a keen dress sense and a potent aftershave. To the right was Ali, a youngster who's studying medicine in the Jordanian capital. Over in the passenger seat was Omar, Zaid's distant cousin. In between them, perched precariously behind the gearstick, was Ahmad. Zaid rolled his prayer beads between his fingers. He raised them to his lips and planted them with kisses, brushing them below his black, wispy mustache. I tried to guess his age but his face seemed mature beyond its years, as though experiences in life had aged him. * Now I peer across the darkening hills to where Zaid pointed, towards the setting sun, towards Syria. Before the conflict, this road directly connected these two ancient capitals. But now, it just reminds Zaid of what used to be. "Damascus is my home," Zaid proudly declares while stroking his mustache. His heavy eyes meet mine in the mirror. "But it became impossible to stay. I left for Amman and now I drive my taxi." I ask if he has family in Syria. "Some stayed, but many Syrians left. It was a painful choice." He gestures towards Youssef and Ali either side of me and Omar in the front, all fast asleep and rocking with the car's motion like content babies. They all made this painful choice, just like Zaid. I ask if he'll ever return home one day. "Inshallah." He caresses his beads once more. "Inshallah." The coiling mountain roads suddenly morph into Amman's traffic-choked streets and we find ourselves among the city's urban sprawl. The car jolts to a stop outside a little shop where I must leave my new friends. Zaid smiles through the open window and gently waves his hand, still decorated with his prayer beads. "Goodbye, my friend." I reach into my wallet for some dinars to say shukran. He could have left me in Ajloun, but he didn't. Zaid exemplifies how kindness can always endure, and conquer, hardships and difficulties. I want to wish him and Youssef and Omar well for the future, to hope that Syria's wound will heal one day. I look up from my wallet. The rusty little Kia is already swallowed into the madness of Amman's traffic. And Zaid is gone.