"Look down there. This is the wadi, a dry river bed millions of years old. Up on the hillside is the Monastery of St. George, but you don't want to cross the wadi to go there. There is nothing to see in the monasteries. But you get the good picture from here."
The white sand blows hard around us as we get out to stare at the Monastery of St. George. I shield my eyes against the sun and the stinging bits of dry earth from the ancient riverbed.
"Miss. Give me your watch, miss. Please. I am very hungry. I sell it for food."
A child, who may be five or six, has padded up beside me. He plucks at the cheap Timex on my wrist and gazes pitifully skyward, over-acting to emphasize his hunger. He's dressed in a long-sleeved striped sweater too hot for the day, a pair of child jeans, and sandals that expose his grimy little feet.
"My family Bedouin. Very hungry."
He produces two toy sheep from a pocket while his little face screws into lines of excess lamentation. "My mama make. You buy? Only ten shekels."
The little sheep still have their 'Made in China' tags, and I say, "I don't have any change with me."
"I come to the car, miss. Only ten shekels. Please, miss. My familyvery hungry." He chomps his teeth to simulate eating, produces a practiced smile close to a leer. "Please, miss."
I turn and start down the rock slide that's the rim of what was once a river, and the little boy lifts a tiny hand, miming a Victorian gallant, to assist me.
As I give him my hand, it accidentally brushes his curling black hair as stiff as wire with dirt and oil.
When we reach the van I say to Sol, "Do you have a shekel I can give him?"
"Get away, you little thief," Sol growls. But he nonetheless hands me a coin to pass on.
Already a trained beggar, the little boy pockets it with the speed of a magician.
Just then the others return and Elizabeth says, "Oh, what a cute little boy."
He instantly switches his blackmail to them. "Give me your camera. Give me your watch. You rich Americans. Give me bon-bons, miss."
James and Elizabeth give him some shekels, and Megan says, "We don't have bon-bons, but would you like one of these?" She reaches in the van for the sack of mangos we bought earlier from a vendor beside the road.
The child scoops up a mango in each hand and sprints across the desert without looking back.
James takes his picture as he runs, and Elizabeth says again, "Isn't he cute."
He's only tragic.
But I don't say anything as I watch his striped sweater and little jeans disappear into the sand dunes.
