Qetura

[Arabella Porter]

 We like to drink with Ara

Cause Ara is our mate

And when we drink with Ara

She drinks it down in

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A cold drink of god knows what ran down my throat as I rushed to get it all down before I slammed down the glass, my mouth twisting into a spiral. Qetura, a pub in the Arava valley in the negev desert on the border between Israel and Jordan was congested with drunk laughter and oriental music. The crew cheered as their first mate raised the glass victoriously into the air.

   “Mi ha sharmulta achshav?” who’s the bitch now?!  I yelled over to hasod shachor’s  dark skinned first mate, Yuval. Yuval smiled.

“at be rosh tov.” You’re drunk. He laughed. I nodded and spun over to him to the rhythm of the music. “Ma at rotzah?” what do you want? Yuval had short black hair pulled into a small pony tail and Bedouin blade attached to his hip. To his left  a man with a covered face sat forward casually. “I’d like you to meet my right hand man,” said Yuval. “He’s silent and we don’t know his name but he’s a Bedouin tracker. He can tell your hair color, age, gender, occupation, favorite color, and what you had for breakfast just by looking at your foot print.” I nodded to the Bedouin man.    

   “You’ll never need to do much on me. I like to be where the trouble is.”  I told Yuval proudly. With that, I picked up his whiskey, nodded, and walked away to join the group. Suddenly, I heard a whistle behind me. Yuval looked to his right where a tall man with shoulder length brown hair sat smirking in my direction.  “can I help you?” I asked him.

“My name is Martin. I’m from Austria.” He said.

“and?” I replied.

“You wanted trouble.”

“and?”

Martin stood up and extended his arms to each side. 

“I’m right here.”