My photo collection began after my grandmother gave me my first Kodak Instamatic camera. Processed at the drive-through Foto-mat, a lifetime of pictures are mounted in albums with sticky backs and plastic covers. Stored in our spare bedroom closet, the photos have faded but you can still tell who the characters are.
They are my personal treasures – both for the memories and for their value. Half-jokingly, I have threatened my friends with,
“If I ever find out someone says something rotten about me, I will post these to Facebook.”
While in Jordan, I found a kindred spirit in our young, Bedouin guide, Mazan.
After my friend loaned her camera to him, his professional demeanor dissolved into a child’s joy. He scampered around the cliffs recording choice moments for digital posterity.
Joumaa conned Louise into crossing a tiny ledge along the Petra cliffs. She cursed and nearly fainted but made it across. When we stopped to regain our composure, Mazan nudged my elbow and asked for my camera. I could not tell what he was looking at but I figured it must be interesting.
He started snapping photos, then shouted something in Arabic. I recognized one word – Facebook.
“What do you see?” I shaded my eyes and squinted.
He placed his hands on my ears and moved my head. Across the canyon, like Romeo and Juliet, two, star-crossed, Bedouin teenagers, sat alone on top of the cliff.
Mazan took more photos and shouted again, “something, something, something Facebook.”
Facebook is going to turn all of us into either saints – or mobsters.
Tales of Dragons, Rabbits and Roosters 