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It’s not often that childhood dreams come true, but in Jordan, mine did. I remember being a child in the 1970s watching a TV program about the Dead Sea, vividly recalling footage of a man lying on his back, floating and gibbering, seemingly having the time of his life.
It’s in a far away country, I remember my dad telling me sadly.
You have to go there by aeroplane and that costs too much money. “This has got to the worst hotel I’ve ever seen!” said Angela, surveying the cracked wallpaper, the tatty fabric curtains flapping about in the hot stale air, the mildew-infected bathroom, and worst of all, the lack of air conditioning. “And what’s that awful smell? I think it’s...urine. I’m not staying here. Let’s check in somewhere else.”
Half an hour later, we were safely ensconced inside the plush
Le Meridian Amman Hotel. It was expensive, but what the hell, we thought, as we found the swimming pool. We were on holiday for God’s sake! That evening we would also discover it sold the most expensive lager known to man, charging over ten pounds a pint. But that was later, and for now, and even though
we’d just endured a night flight from Hell, we decided to hit the streets of Amman, the relatively unknown capital of Jordan.
“These pavements are bloody high!” I said, stepping up onto what seemed like a ledge. “God help anyone in a wheelchair.” We’d just passed the large blue domed King Abdullah Mosque and were walking past an armed soldier who nodded as we traipsed by. A sign told us that Amman Centre was ahead somewhere and so we walked onwards. Yellow taxis were everywhere, beeping to attract our attention but we waved them off, sidestepping a man with missing front teeth who was leaning over the bonnet of an old Mercedes. He eyed us as we passed, but it wasn’t a threatening stare, if anything it was a gaze of boredom.
Amman was decidedly hilly, which actually gave the city a picturesque look from certain angles. In the sun’s early morning glare, the square white buildings up on the slopes looked decidedly pretty. Up close though, they looked grubby and in need of repair, and together with the honking and fume-filled traffic, it made Amman seem a bit grim. But to be fair, not many people arrived
in Jordan to visit its capital city; no, they came to see Petra or the Dead See, places we would also see later during our visit.
Forty minutes later we came to the city centre, finding ourselves in an area filled with souqs and shops. The focal point was the Al-Husseiny Mosque which was a hive of activity; mainly made up of old men sat about watching people pass by. Taxis patrolled the streets and men sat about in shop doorways, but Angela and I headed west towards the three main sights of Amman, all of them Roman in origin.
As it happened, we had arrived in Jordan during the month of Ramadan, which meant every single cafe and restaurant (except ones in the posh hotels) were closed during the day. Perhaps because of this, I suddenly became famished, realising that we’d not eaten for hours. I was thirsty too, and with the sun climbing further into the sky, making the temperatures soar, I felt I really needed some food and drink.
During the time of the Roman Empire, Amman was known as Philadelphia, and one of the things the Romans constructed was a complex known as
the Nymphauem. Unfortunately it hadn’t been full of near-naked nymphomaniacs but instead was a shrine dedicated to mythical water nymphs. In its prime it contained large mosaics, carvings and even a swimming pool and we found it on a street corner opposite a fruit and vegetable stall. As Angela and I peered through the wire fence, we both agreed that it looked a bit rough. All that remained were a few column and arches, overlooked by a backdrop of apartment buildings.
“Look!” said Angela, pointing towards an establishment that seemed to specialise in bread. Men with thick moustaches were inside, rolling, shaping and baking the bread and so we went in to see if we could buy some. We could and we ended up buying a huge sesame-seeded piece of bread for 250 fills (25p) and some water. Back outside, and even though we knew that it was okay for non-Muslims to eat during the Fast, we were still discreet whenever we stuffed a mound of pastry into our chops. Hunger sated for the time being, we headed off to see the second sight of the day - the Roman Theatre.
It did look quite impressive, carved into
a hillside and looking all Roman-like, making it easy to conjure up images of people jeering and cheering as slaves battled angry toothed-beasts. We paid the two dinar entrance fee and for a few minutes took in the majesty of the place until the heat became too much and we scurried off to find some shade.
The prime of Amman’s attractions was the Citadel, mounted atop the tallest hill in the city. After a strenuous climb up a set of never ending steps, we reached the top to see what remained. Not a lot was the answer but it was still well worth the climb, if only for the magnificent view of the city. From up high, Amman was truly picturesque. Aside from the view though, there were some grand columns, a large section of wall and an old palace.
“These columns,” I said, reading from the guide book, “are all that remains of the Roman Temple of Hercules.” We stood admiring them for a while before entering the nearby archaeological museum, which among a large range of other things contained some of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
I have always found museums dull and even though this
one contained skulls, ancient statues and even Egyptian carvings, it was no different. I whizzed round every exhibit, hardly pausing to read any of the information and in only ten minutes found myself back at the entrance. “Well that’s the sights of Amman done,” I quipped as Angela and I caught a taxi back to our hotel. “And it’s not even lunchtime yet.” We spent the rest of the day relaxing by the pool reading our books and listening to our iPods, waiting for the next day when we’d go to Petra.
Petra, it has to be said, was better than I’d expected it to be. And it was bigger too, more like an ancient city than just a carving on a wall. The three hour journey by road from Amman passed in a blur of sand and phosphate factories, until we arrived at the town of Wadi Musa, the tourist hub for the ancient city of Petra.
Our guide, a man in his thirties called Adib, led us through the entrance towards some men with horses. “You will each have one for the first seven hundred metres of the tour,” he told us, “which is included in
the price you have paid. But afterwards, if you are happy with the service provided by the men, then perhaps you can give them a tip: three to five dinars is usual. I will meet you at the end of this track.”
I mounted my steed, as did Angela, and was led down a sandy path by a man who clucked and swatted the horse to get it on its way. “You ride?” he asked me, passing me the reigns. “Come on, make horse go!”
The last time I’d ridden a horse was in Cairo, and before that when I was fifteen, so there was no way in the world I was going to make the horse go, despite the urging of the man behind me. Angela was in front with her guide holding onto the reigns and so I shook my head and took some photos instead. My man wandered up alongside me and smiled a toothy grin. “Where you from? Ah England! I know Scotland and the Isle of Wight!” He then gave me what he thought was an authentic Scottish accent but sounded more like Japanese. I smiled, inwardly knowing the man was angling for
his tip.
Quarter of an hour later, after climbing down from our horses, both men stood about gleefully awaiting the huge bounty that the rich tourists were surely going to offer. I opened my wallet and fished out six dinars, three each, which I gave to one of the men. The oldest of the pair took this and then gave me a look of such distain that I wondered if I’d inadvertently farted in the face of his filly. “We want five dinar each!” he snarled, waving the notes I’d already given him. I shook my head and walked away, with Angela close behind. It was only later, after discussing what had happened, that Angela told me I should have simply grabbed the six dinar back and pocketed it. After all, the men had already been paid. Five dinar each! That was ten quid for fifteen minutes work. Cheeky gits.
Adib led us onwards towards the heart of Petra, taking us though the winding Siq, a narrow pathway lined with sheer sandstone cliffs. Thankfully the sides offered shade from the summer temperatures and as we wandered through, Adib would stop to explain about the water channels that had
been built into the walls or would point out a carving of a camel.
“Angela,” Adib said, after he’d prattled on about some carving or another. “I think perhaps Jason is bored of my explanations. And I can tell exactly when he has had enough because he says ‘okay’ and that is when I know I have rambled on too much and must move on.”
“You want postcard, mister?” said the young boy proffering a range of different scenes of Petra. “Only one dinar!” Other boys offered donkey rides and along certain sections of the trail were women sitting at trinket stalls.
Please come see! they wailed. We said no thanks to all of them and followed Adib to the most famous sight of Petra - the Treasury.
The Siq opened up to reveal this majestic structure, the most photographed part of the ancient city. Sandstone columns and carved statues made up the bulk of the beautiful facade, all carved from the cliff face. There were plenty of other tourists, all jabbering away in Spanish. “I’ve never seen as many Spanish people outside of Spain itself,” said Angela as we regarded the trio of camels sitting
in front of the massive Treasury. Film producers had also seen the appeal of Petra with scenes from
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade having been shot in Petra, and one of them in the spot where we now stood. “I reckon this place is better than the Pyramids,” I said.
But there was so much more to Petra than just the Treasury. Over the course of the next hour or so, we saw an ancient theatre carved into the rock, overlooked by the fantastically-named High Place of Sacrifice. Further along there were some Royal Tombs, which were also carved into the sandstone, as well as a large church located at the end of a pathway lined with tall columns. “My dream,” said Adib, “It is to go back in time and see Petra as a living and breathing city, to buy spices from the markets, to eat the food from the stalls, and to see water gushing along the rivers and into the gardens. What a dream, eh, to see how the Nabataeans actually lived!”
“You want donkey to the top?” asked the teenager scurrying towards us. Adib had left us to our own devices but not
before telling us to visit the Monastery. The adolescent with the donkey smiled. “It take one hour if you walk, but my donkey takes only twenty minutes!” We brushed him off and began the climb upwards. A lot of other people were walking too, but some did use the donkeys and one man passed us almost screaming with terror as his beast of burden carted him up the precarious rocky steps overlooking sheer cliff drops.
Eventually we reached the summit and were rewarded with an amazing view of the valley below as well as the Monastery itself. Like the Treasury, it had been carved into the rock and looked simply stunning. At its base was a huge chamber where people were peering in. “Do you know what I’d love to do?” I told Angela as we too looked inside the black interior, filled with nothing apart from a few discarded drinks cans. “I’d love to wait inside, where no one could see me, and then bellow: WELCOME UNDERLINGS! I AM YOUR MASTER AND YOU MUST BOW DOWN TO ME NOW! WHA-HA-HA-HAAAA!”
Behind the Monastery was a drink stand selling bottles of water for the scandalous price of two
dinars each. One couple, both Spanish, went up to the man in charge, but shook their heads in disgust at the price and left empty-handed. After posing by a Jordanian Flag, we bid the summit farewell and clambered back down along the path, arriving back at our hotel almost seven hours after entering the complex. We were both hot and bothered, but certainly glad we’d seen what Petra had to offer.
The next morning, our drive to the Dead Sea took us through some dramatic mountain scenery which was simply breathtaking. While our driver negotiated hairpin bends Angela and I took in the view, which seemed almost lunar in appearance, or perhaps Martian, with the reds and oranges from the sandstone rocks. Occasionally we would pass nomadic settlements, sometimes with herds of goats wandering about with bells around their necks, and then after perhaps two hours, we descended into a lowland area, with the Israeli border flanking our left hand side.
Our first sighting of the Dead Sea gave us a glimpse of just how salty the huge lake actually was. White sediment was caked along the shoreline, and the potash factories were taking full advantage of this.
Eventually though we came to a public resort on the north-eastern edge of the lake, which as well as swimming pools and cafes, offered access to the Dead Sea. Angela and I wasted no time in changing into our swimming gear to head for the water’s edge. Other people were already in the water, floating about gleefully. Grinning, I waded in.
“Bloody hell, it’s hot!” I said as the water went up to my knees. “It’s like being in a bath!” I trudged deeper, dunking my hand into the warm water, finding it had an oily texture, totally unlike any other water I’d felt. Angela wasn’t far behind me and when I reached a point which I thought was suitably deep, I bent my knees and then leaned backwards. It was amazing! The way I could float was almost unreal; I could even stretch my arms and feet upwards, so that they were sticking out of the water and not sink. Why that boy was wearing armbands I couldn’t fathom. I was like a cork in a pond, it was impossible to sink. It was only later that we learned that it was possible to drown in the Dead
Sea, and people did so every year, usually as a result of swimming too far from the shore and trying to swim on their fronts.
“This is great!” said Angela, who was also floating on her back. “Better than I thought, actually.” I nodded and kicked my legs in the soupy sea to propel myself into deeper waters. There was no risk of being bitten by a denizen of the deep though, because nothing, apart from some algae and bacteria, lived in the lake, and with no danger of sinking, I was quite happy even though my feet couldn’t touch the bottom.
“I reckon I could swim to Israel,” I quipped, pointing towards the mountains on the other side of the lake. “And I wouldn’t be knackered when I got there.” We splashed about for another fifteen minutes or so before getting out to get dried up. Back in the car on the way to Amman, we still found salt traces everywhere though. I found a particularly good deposit behind my ears. “Well that’s the Dead Sea ticked off the list,” I said. “And it was good!”
That evening, not wanting to spend twenty-one pounds on a
hotel burger, we walked to a local Burger King. The prices were reasonable and so we ordered some food, as did plenty of other people, all of them locals. However, while I was waiting to collect our order, I noticed that no one in the full restaurant was actually eating, even though they all had trays of food in front of them. And then it came to me - they were all waiting for the official sunset before they could begin eating. One man in front of me sat staring at a wall-mounted TV featuring an Islamic cleric. And then, at precisely 7.14pm, the chomping began.
The next morning, Angela and I headed to the airport after a month of travelling around the world. After eight countries, numerous airports, different time zones and lots of different currencies, we felt we had done it all. We’d been whale watching in New England and had seen Niagara Falls from the Canadian side of the border. We had looked at the Hollywood Sign in Los Angeles and we’d taken a boat tour under the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. We’d used space-age toilets in Tokyo and had sweated our way through
Taipei. We had met a friend of ours in Manila, snorkelled in Bali, and shopped in Hong Kong, Finally, in Jordan we had ambled through Petra and floated in the Dead Sea. But now it was time to head back to the UK. Our trip was over.
Strengths: -Petra
-The Dead Sea
-Friendly people
-Safe for tourists
Weaknesses: -Amman is not particularly pretty
-The most expensive beer in the world
-Very hot in August
-Taxi drivers trying to rip you off
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