Near Amman, Jordan.
There is something so clean about the desert. The wind whips and whirls over the landscape. You hear the emptiness. Its elemental. He had a revolver. Id been there an hour and hadn’t realised.
Carefully drawing it from the holster he swung out the cylinder to show it wasn’t loaded. Its pearled white stock was engraved with the coat of arms of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. I asked. He began the story I could see his pride was itching to tell. How he had, for some time, travelled the world as personal bodyguard to the king of Jordan.
Visiting Europe and the Americas and places in-between. But now his old age had drawn him back home to the desert to live out his life as a Bedouin. He stood up, smiled and took his leave.