In 1949, while I was deciding whether to take up the scalpel or the shuttle; I found myself in Transjordan working for the British Red Cross. Transjordan is only the size of Ireland but it manages to contain a stimulating mixture of primitive and modern. For instance, a Bedouin sheikh I knew owned the latest model Chrysler car but parked it at night under a flap of his handwoven goat-hair tent. However, the handspinning and handweaving that still lingers on has little of the modern in it.
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