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Wadi Rum in Jordan
The archaeological ruins of the City of Ayla. 9th Century.Aqaba, Jordan
Wadi Rum, the Valley of the Moon, called the most beautiful desert in the East. A gorgeous emptiness, a sandy, drifting desert punctuated by hard, wide platters of baked clay, salty and cracked, and mounds of rubble at the feet of sand-lapped, knife-sharp granite cliffs and peaks. Further into the desert, these turn mostly to softer hills and cliffs, striped and colourful sandstone rounded by the steady winds, thrusting abruptly out of the moving sand.
This is where T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, struck by the beauty of a particular rock formation, named it, "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom", after his book of the same name. It should be noted that the seven pillars of his book have nothing to do with the stone formation he named in the Wadi. Lawrence was very good at self-promotion.
It is a federally protected region, which is to say that it is protected by the Sultan's whim. Development is limited to the farmlands at the edges of the sand and to a very few tourist bases in the interior. These range from full-out wild camping to camps equipped with generators, shower stalls and in a few very rare instances,
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Preparing to take off! Meet Awdi, the Desert Wolf. western-style flush toilets. No vehicles are allowed in the region unless they are four-wheel drive. Camels are cool though.
Where we were going, we expected no luxuries, and a good thing it was that we did not. You bring everything you need with you, and then some. No non-locals are permitted to travel without a licensed guide.
Ours was named Awdi. Mahmoud said he was called, "The Desert Wolf," but only by Awdi himself. To find him, Mamoud and Faiz picked us up midmorning near the tourist center. But first he led us on foot to an area nearby, fenced off for an archaeological dig. These were the remains of the original seaside village of Ayla in the 9th century. Then with Doug and Marianne, and Yolanda and Hawkin, we headed north up the same highway we had taken the previous day. This time, though, instead of heading west into the mountains towards the Lost City, we veered east, into the not-very-lush farmland that skirts the wild country.
A railway paces the road, running phosphorus from the northern mines to the port at Aqaba. As we moved further northeast, the terrain on the other side of the
tracks shifted from rocky earth into sandy desert, with the occasional low lying farms that have access to the water table. In many areas of the desert, water lies not far below the surface, held in vast reservoirs of bowls of rock buried underneath the shifting sand.
On the drive to Wadi Rum, Mahmoud turned in his seat, looked us over, and began.
"The Tea Ritual is very important in Japanese tradition. There is a prescribed method of preparing, making, serving and cleaning. Every stage is important, and required. Coffee," he said, "holds that level of importance for the Bedouin."
Family equipment for roasting, grinding, preparing and serving coffee is prized, as the quality of the equipment reflects their pride in their commitment to hospitality.
Al Heif is the first cup and is poured and tasted by the host, to represent the safety of the guest. Al Keif is the second, poured and tasted by the guest. Al Dheif is the third, poured and drunk by the guest. There is a precise protocol with hand movements, asking for more or signaling, "Enough." Very formal.
Coffee was once rejected by the Christian world as it was
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Terrycloth Bedouin! seen as a Muslim thing, until one of the more enterprising Popes baptised the bean into Holy Mother Church and all was well for a caffeinated Christian West.
Mahmoud and Faiz are cousins, of the same Bedouin tribe. Their grandfathers herded goats and camels. Mahmoud spoke to us of the closeness of family, and the vast extent of it, how responsibility for a tribal member is counted off on the fingers of one hand curled around the hilt of a Jordanian blade. As the generations are named off, a finger is raised from the hilt. When the great-great grandfather is named, the knife falls to the sand, signaling the extent of a tribe's responsibility for one of its members, and the responsibility of the member to accept tribal judgement.
Sometimes pride and hospitality clash. Mahmoud told of two men, one of whom was getting married. "You should come, and bring your family," said the groom. "Oh, no," said the other, "My family is large. You could not afford it."
Incensed at what he saw as a slight, the groom insisted, and weeks later, the man showed up at the wedding as promised, bringing all 3,000 of his
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Where are their feet? family.
The call was sent out for more camels to roast.
Faiz pulled of the road and a short distance away we found Awdi's house. After saying hello to Awdi, Faiz disappeared into the dust with the van. Awdi's home is a large cinderblock, wood and plaster cottage affair inside a gated, walled compound, also containing a thick, busy garden. Tall trees on the property indicate access to plentiful water underground.
After introductions we helped finish loading the tough-looking Toyota 4x4. It became clear pretty quickly that there was not enough room in the truck for eight. At least two, preferably three would have to ride in the open truck bed, filled as it was with camp chairs and table, cooking equipment and supplies, coolers and containers and thankfully, several quilted camp mattresses, like cushions for outdoor furniture.
Jane and I were the best dressed to ride outside, with our versatile traveling pants and long-sleeved hi-uv-resistant shirts, our Tilley hats and my cargo vest. We were ready, baby. Spreading the pads over the containers, we made a traveling nest in the back, and we had wisely brought beach towels from the ship in case we needed
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Is that Paul up there? to pad our seats in the truck.
As we bounced across the railway tracks and picked up speed on the packed sand trail leading out into the desert, we could see the dust billowing on the horizon, and we were headed straight for it. The towels were meant for sitting upon, but now they became our scarves, wrapped around neck, nose and mouth to keep out the sand - we were the Terrycloth Bedouin. Like Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect, we were smug and grateful in the knowledge that we knew exactly where our towels were.
We roared across the relatively hard-packed and level sand, but still soundly bouncing our butts on the cargo underneath. Mahmoud stood, leaning on the rack at the tail of the 4X4, facing forward with his keffiyeh trailing in the dusty wind. With only his steely eyes showing, squinted against the blowing grit, he could have been the picture of a swarthy Bedouin warrior, had he been wearing a sword rather than an Adidas sweatshirt.
Our steed plowed through the dust storm with no ill effects, and when we came out the other side Awdi navigated us to an area where the
wind was less vicious. We all piled out when he stopped, and trudged up a steep dune, to be rewarded by a 360 degree view of empty grandeur punctuated by huge granite and sandstone hills and cliffs.
When the wind does not blow, the silence is absolute. Sharp ridges of sand march across the desert, towards the cliffs that jut abruptly from the curving hills of sand. Here the wind forms a dune, its top edge whipping in the wind, and there, further off in the valley the sand can be seen blowing in small whirlwinds straight over the flat clay, the edges of the grains of sand too softened and rounded by aeons of being blown about, the clay too slick to give purchase to a wannabe dune.
I wandered down the sand ridge and looked out. People live here and survive, and have for many thousands of years. The feeling of solitude was staggering, even knowing that if I turned I would see my seven companions.
The wind came up again. I turned, and saw nothing. The ridge of the dune disappeared into a wall of sand and dust. It quickly cleared, and I could
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Awdi and Mahmoud preparing the feast. see our group again. The wind whipped the sand about their feet on the ridge of the topmost dune, so that their legs blurred into the spinning brown fog as if they were standing in a rising tide of thin sand.
After piling back into our 4X4, we zoomed along the sand ridges and across the clay flats, enjoying the beauty and loneliness of the place. The dead roots of tenacious bushes appear in areas where the water table lingers for a while after the rains. When the clay plains flood, the green comes shortly after, short-lived as it is. But in the meantime, in March, there is no green, only the palette of reds and browns and yellows in the striations of the sedimentary hills, the unyielding brown of the sand, and the darkness of the jagged granite.
Awdi had several locations in mind for our lunch stop, and rejected them one by one because of wind. He finally chose a sheltered spot nestled in a V of rock outcroppings, buffered by a ridge of sand piled up windward. A small pile of ash in a sand depression was evidence of previous visitors, but that was all.
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Heating water for tea and there are eggplant in there! I can't imagine what this place would look like with plastic grocery bags and water bottles tumbleweeding across the Wadi.
We unpacked and set up camp, and scattered outwards looking for wood. It is there: if you can find a desiccated straw nub poking up from the sand, just follow it down and it can lead to a substantial (proportionally, that is - this is the desert, after all) chunk of trunk and taproot.
We soon gathered enough for a cookfire, Mahmoud having done the lion's share of wood scavenging while Awdi chopped lunch. Kindling was barely necessary as the dried wood eagerly grabbed hold of the the first flame. The wood from the dried and ragged desert bushes smelled of cedar.
While the Bedouin made lunch, we lounged on the mattresses and chairs, and wandered about the site. Jane befriended a beetle. Remembering the cockroach she had spared in a flash of Buddhism in Yangon, I encouraged this accumulation of good karma.
We were set up at the base of a cliff, but I discovered discovered that the slope was quite gradual on the other side where the ridge descended to be swallowed by the
sand. I was able to easily climb to the top of the outcropping, where the view was stupendous, but the loose rocks treacherous.
Mahmoud began preparing our first course by nestling a couple of large eggplant in the coals to roast, covering them with sticks which smouldered and occasionally flamed up. While he did that, Awdi assembled a casserole of chicken, tomatoes, onions, potatoes and several mysterious spices delicately selected from an ancient and weathered piece of Tupperware containing a shaman's mix of twigs, leaves, seeds and roots. The mixture was baked, covered, over the aromatic fire for an hour or so. Tea was made and served in the Bedouin style; black, strong and sweetened with honey.
Mahmoud retrieved the mushy cooked eggplant and Awdi scooped it out and combined it with olive oil, garlic and lemon juice with chunks of lemon rind, then roasted it some more over the fire. Serve with pita, and "Quick, quick! Eat before the sand gets in it!"
Food cooked outdoors always tastes better, but this babaganouch was stupendous, likely because it was so different from burgers and corn and potato salad. The main casserole dish did not disappoint. Full of
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Babaganough like you have never tasted! flavour, the chicken tender and moist, the combinations of tang and texture was delicious.
Awdi made coffee, but not in the strictly traditional way. This stuff was pre-roasted and ground at home, but the tradition was respected. He poured our tiny cups of coffee and handed it to us after having had one himself. I called to Mahmoud at the fire, "Help! A Bedouin chieftain is giving me coffee!"
"Be right there," Mahmoud laughed, and we did Al-Kaif.
Not to be outdone, Mahmoud had concocted for the final hot part of the meal traditional Arabic fol, or ful, or foule, a mixture of crushed fava beans, olive oil, vegetables, parsley, onion, garlic and chili peppers. I thought I was in Valhalla, the flavours transported me, and I must have devoured almost half the dish on my own, scooping up the savoury hot paste with chunks of flatbread, encouraged by the smiling Awdi to not leave it for the beetles.
We lounged for a long while, talking and digesting, Awdi teaching us about camels and nomadic Bedouin camps, and Mahmoud talking about Islam, the monarchy and what he does when he's not a tour guide.
After
Wadi Rum in Jordan
The main course. Excellent! digestion and cleanup, Jane decided to pee before we left. She trudged off down the ridgeline of the nearest dune and disappeared over the edge. The other ladies decided this was a good idea, and followed her path. Rather than seek out their own spot, they inexplicably lined up. In the desert. Nothing but dunes and rocks everywhere.
We repacked the Toyota and headed further east. We passed through areas where much of the recent movie, The Martian, was filmed. There remain a couple of stage sets for an Arabic survival tv show, and a couple where parts of the remake of Lawrence of Arabia was recorded. From a distance we saw one of the high-end overnight camps where tourists lie on the sand and gaze at the stars all night, but insist on toilets over latrines.
We came upon a semi-permanent camp half-shredded by the wind and by neglect. Tatters of coarse goathair blankets hung from a rude tent framework. Inside was a old '60s living room set, an overstuffed couch and two armchairs, stripped halfway of stuffing and fabric by the relentless gusts. The blanket wall didn't look like much, but the coarse goat or camel
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Mahmoud making foule. hair swells when wet, sealing the tent from rain, and wet or dry, will protect the occupants from wind and whipping sand.
We did some dune surfing with the Toyota. Jane and I, riding in the back, tended to look where we had been rather than where we were going. So it was a surprise when Mahmoud suddenly cried out, "Hang on," and the Toyota tipped forward alarmingly before we raced down the side of a huge dune, eliciting alarmed screeches from the ladies in the cab and a few unintelligible, but loud and sincere words from Doug.
We hit bottom and leveled off, Awdi laughing like a hyena. We were all for doing it again and again, but not everyone seemed to enjoy it, so we did it only once more, but faster and steeper. Laughing and hollering, we rolled out of the truck and took a bunch of pictures of the group.
We had joked earlier about the ubiquitous request from children and peddlers, "One dinar, give me one dinar." Kids hung out outside MacDonald's, trying to flog their Happy Meal prizes for, "One dinar, only one dinar." Awdi took our camera and took pictures
of us, and rather than handing back the camera, he held out his upturned palm and said, "One dinar."
We reboarded the truck and turned south and then west, headed back to the road out there somewhere.
We saw a Bedouin camp from the 4X4 on our way out of Wadi Rum. They had fixed poles in the sand and hung the goathide blankets between them to shield them from the wind and the shifting sand. A couple of camels could be seen hanging out and Awdi pointed out where the horses would be watered separately from the camels.
Although these days most of the three tribes of South Jordan Bedouin live in villages, some opt for the traditional nomadic life, which to this day includes a culturally ingrained hospitality towards fellow desert travelers. Had we wished, we could have intruded and been welcomed. A complex system of respect and ritualised hospitality has been maintained through all the different ruling civilizations in this region, so that tribes with differing values could interact peacefully, under a mutually understood set of rules, without resorting to violence and a wad of camel spit.
We came out of the dunes
Wadi Rum in Jordan
Our modern day Bedouin Warrior. and mountains onto the flat packed plain. Awdi turned on some local music, singing along in a melodic voice to music which sounds discordant to the western ear. Mahmoud joined in from the truck bed. Then high sweet notes from a pipe wafted up from the cab. Awdi had rolled down a window and was playing a flute, difficult to do one-handed, and we were tootling along at a good clip on the hard sand with Awdi likely steering with his knees. After yesterday's demonstration of Jordanian driving skill, and the sliding rides down the dunes, I wondered how Doug was enjoying the ride.
We heard laughter and applause from inside the truck, so it wasn't all bad. Then in the silence that followed, we in the back heard Awdi call in a loud, clear voice, "One dinar!"
Too soon, we came upon the railway tracks, now to us as much of a beacon of civilization as a city skyline. We slowed as we approached the little berm that allowed the 4X4 to cross the tracks relatively easily. Awdi navigated the Toyota to the crest, and midway across the tracks, we stopped. He may have turned off the
Wadi Rum in Jordan
So beautiful! Yet so inhospitable. engine. I heard Doug say something that was unclear, but there was concern in his tone. I could not see, but I could picture Awdi turning to the people in the cab and smiling, and I could hear through the window as he said cheerfully, "One dinar!"
Faiz awaited us back at Awdi's compound, and we took some time to meet the horses, proud and lean Arabians, sleekly stocky with lower shoulders than the North American breeds. Awdi proudly introduced one in particular that had completed the dangerously arduous 140K endurance race across the sand that year.
Awdi's young nieces and nephews milled about curiously, an 8-year old nephew eagerly going around and shaking hands with Uncle's odd clients. The women, of course, did not venture further than the gate of the compound other than to ensure the children were not a nuisance. They were not, they were delightful.
We watched the horses for a while, chatting about life and family until it was time to head back (Awdi got more than just one dinar). We took long looks back at the desert as we headed for the highway through the valley, back to Aqaba. The magic
word got us waved through the EEZ checkpoint for the last time and Faiz led a little cheer for Canadians and Jordanians.
We arrived back in town with some hours until sailaway. The guys told us that they were happy to spend a couple more hours showing us around, but really it was only the markets left to see, perhaps a museum for an hour, and the consensus was that the active two days had left us ready for the comforts of the ship rather than the, um, thrill of shopping.
After a late dinner everyone was ready to call it a day. Jane was asleep by 10. At 11pm, we cast off.
I went to the aft deck to enjoy the clear skies and warm breezes and the glittering lights on the shorelines of Jordan, Israel, Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Poker buddy Angela joined me at the rail and we solved the problems of the world as we watched the lights of the four countries recede, and the stars came out of the dark and sparkled on the waves.
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