Aqaba, Jordan March 22, 2016

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Aqaba, Jordan
Petra (The Lost City, The Rose Red City)

The Red Sea ends in the North, two fingers of water forming a peace sign. The finger on the left leads to Port Suez and the Canal to the Mediterranean. The right finger ends at Aqaba, Jordan's only port. Indeed, Jordan's only coastline.

This is also where the countries of Egypt, Israel, Saudi Arabia and Jordan abut. A gigantic (20X40m) Jordanian flag flies on the shoreline, watching over the heavily restricted border with Israel just next door, and due to its size and that of the immense flagpole from which it flaps (130m high), it is easily seen not only from Israel, but also from Egypt and Saudi Arabia.

Here as in Oman, 90% of the people are Sunni Muslim and in Jordan, the mosque is the state, and vice versa. It is illegal to criticise the King.

Jordanians are a superstitious people. Belief in the Evil Eye, the inevitability of fate, the infallibility of omens and the belief that injury or illness is the direct result of the sins of jealousy and/or envy, that we pay for our misdeeds in this life.

They are generally xenophobic. Although they have absorbed many Syrian refugees in the north, not all Jordanians do it gracefully: there is widespread resentment. Israel, just to the west, is referred to as the Occupied Lands, Iraquis are despised, and they and several other nationalities are barred from entry altogether, or restricted to the Economic Exclusion Zone that is Aqaba.

Aqaba is a unique oasis of business in a nation firm in its faith and heavy in its rejection of "Western values." Aqaba is a major world port, and Jordan's only port. To protect the inland populace from moral contamination while recognising economic necessity, Aqaba comprises an Economic Exclusion Zone where Shariah-style and tribal law regarding many business activities are suspended. These activities are heavily regulated, and grim traditional social mores hold sway. Internet use, for example, is heavily filtered, and Western tools of moral collapse, such as Skype, are forbidden.

Checkpoints in and out of the city and a heavy police presence enforce the prohibition of many products and services outside of the Zone. Indeed, our driver and guide had to collect us rather surreptitiously, as they are not EEZ tourist permit licensed to pick up clients at the central bus/taxi station where the ship's shuttle would leave us. Instead, we had to meet at a prearranged spot, a KFC (!) less than a kilometer from the tourist center.

We elected to put our fate in the hands of Marianne and Doug, who some weeks before took on the task of researching and hiring a guide and driver for our time in Jordan. The two most popular ship's tours were for Petra and Wadi Rum. We originally booked with the ship before we left, but decided the benefits of a smaller group and lesser cost combined with the high recommendations for the the guide found by Marianne and Doug made it a no-brainer. Hawkin and Yolanda bought in as well, so we were six on our two-day adventure. First, the two-hour drive to the Rose Red City of Petra and back, and tomorrow, a venture into the stark deserts of Wadi Rum.

So with Doug and Marianne, and Hawkin and Yolanda, we took the shuttle bus to the station. We had to run the gauntlet of tour guides and taxis and hawkers waiting for us at the station, and Marianne led us to the KFC. Waiting for us outside were Mahmoud, the thirtysomething guide, smiling but serious and who spoke English like a grad student, and Faiz, the older, toothier driver, who spoke no English but always had a happy, infectious grin.

We got into the comfortable van, easily seating the eight of us. A modern four-lane took us north out of town and inland. Immediately we were struck by the stark landscapes, sharp angular granite cliffs thrusting up through barren clay cut by ribbons of dry riverbeds.

We passed several police checkpoints, and pulled to a stop at an EEZ customs station, like a toll station or border access control, several lanes wide. Armed guards are here to prevent the smuggling of prohibited goods from the EEZ into the country itself. Faiz rolled down the window and showed their tour guide permit. The guard looked at us all in the back of the van, and barked a question. Faiz answered, "Canada." The guard looked instantly bored, and gazing at the horizon, waved us lazily through.

Along the way, Mahmoud lectured us on Jordinian economics, geography and history, and shared some aspects of his personal life as an urban Bedouin. He trained as a nurse and now teaches anatomy at the nursing school. Faiz is his cousin, an older man who likes driving for tourists. Due to his lack of English, that's about all we learned about Faiz.

Further north, the western hills smoothed out to flatter sandstone and sedimentary cliffs, sculpted by the desert winds at the sand's edge and the layers of soil and rock reflected a range of colours in the changing morning light. To the east lay Wadi Rum, an expanse of rock and desert once roamed by Lawrence of Arabia. We turned west off the four lane and began passing some camels and a few goats and then flocks of sheep with their herders, doing as their fathers and grandfathers have done for thousands of years, guiding and driving the animals from green patch to green patch.

The temperature dropped as we climbed higher into the hills and mountains. Presently we stopped at a huge knickknack store in the middle of nowhere. Mahmoud told that we could use the bathrooms and were welcome to peruse the store, buy coffee, etc. Inside, the cavernous space was half-filled with shelves, tables and piles of goods, while the rest was empty space or piles of empty boxes.

The store was populated by a half-dozen bored-to-tears locals. Our little group was greeted like family, and after hitting the bathroom we felt obligated to peruse the goods on offer at the store. After almost three months of touring we had a practiced eye for detecting crap, both in the goods and in the family's claims of quality. They were lovely people, so very attentive, polite, hospitable and so very impossible to break away from.

We were rescued by the abrupt arrival of a full busload of fresh full-bladdered victims on a ship's tour and we slipped out as the newbies poured in.

Of course, it wouldn't be a trip into the hinterlands of a faraway county without running into Brainard coming off the bus, waving happily and worrying about his upcoming hike.

The mountain roads twisted and turned and moved ever upward, and we were treated to some beautiful views of the landscapes which changed in subtle ways: cliffs get steeper and steeper, then the hills smooth out. We reached plateaus where grazing land stretched to the horizon in gentle hillocks, then down the other side in a series of switchbacks which slid us in our seats from side to side as we made the turns. Faiz enjoyed driving, and enjoyed making the van "perform" on the curves and slopes. Doug was less impressed with Faiz's driving skills, especially in areas where just over the shoulder was a 100-foot drop.

We stopped at a lookout over a valley. A mountain rose behind us, and to the east lay a range of foothills spotted here and there with green patches and villages of grey buildings. Down in the valley nestles a town which spills to the west and crawls further up the foothills and slopes.

Mahmoud pointed to the mountain range to the south and traced our gaze from the town and down a road which disappeared into the hills. "See that dark gash in the rock?"

It was like a keyhole in the cliff. An unremarkable long dark diamond cut in shadow, barely visible in the cliffs far across the valley, a subtle cave or fissure in the otherwise sandy-brown walls.

"That is the entrance to the Lost City of Petra."

Well, no wonder they lost it.

Dang if I didn't feel like Indiana Jones. We were suddenly anxious to get there.

Faiz dropped us at the entrance to the site, a grand plaza with ticket booths, food kiosks and tourist goods, and a hotel with, surprisingly, a bar (Islamic country). Special dispensation for tourist revenue, perhaps.

Past the tourist complex, two pathways run parallel down to the passageway in the rock; one for the people, and another for the horses. Single-horse carts are for hire to take you all the way to the inside of the city, and saddled horses are available for the ride to the entrance of the keyhole cleft in the cliff. From there, the chasm (called the Sif) winds narrowly for hundreds of meters.

Along the way, we passed what are called the Djinn blocks, hollowed-out caves with rectangular doors and simple carved decoration. Further on, a hint of what is to come: a series of portals cut into the rock, flanked by solid pillars and all of one solid piece, hewn from the rock face.

Once inside the narrow passageway, the colours of the sedimentary layers vary with the angle of the light and their location on the heights of the walls. The passages twists and turns, accompanied by the remains of shoulder-high aqueducts which funneled rainwater for kilometers to the city to supply the population of over 30,000 people and innumerable animals.

For a Lost City, it's pretty crowded. We frequently had to step aside or be sideswiped by the small horses clipclopping down the passageway at speed, pulling the miniature calleches like tuk-tuks with the driver in front and two passengers on a covered bench behind. Footing changed from gravel to stone to clay to cobbles, all quite unbalancing.

Those that took the ride, either for fun or to avoid the otherwise arduous walk, had little good to say about the experience. Being roughly jostled on a hard wooden bench and being shaken down for tips was not a highlight for those folks.

Along the way there are the remains of weathered sculptures and carved symbols still visible in the sandstone. There is a niche carved into the wall at one point where, the archaeologists hazard, a priest joined two people in marriage, a religious symbol gazing down from the opposite wall.

At the end of the passageway, it's like a scene from a movie as the first gasp-inducer comes into view, as if the way in wasn't stunning enough. Indeed, it is in a movie, the second in the Indiana Jones series. As you exit the gorge and enter the valley, the first thing you see is the facade of a multistory temple, with columns and ornate decoration, carved directly onto the rock face and hollowed out on the inside. It stops you in your tracks with its unexpected grandeur. This is only the first Burial Chamber. There are many more.

Once out of the gorge, you can see that the place widens and sprawls, nestled safely between the high multicoloured, but mostly pinkish-to-red cliff walls. Petra is a place of indescribable beauty, complexity and sophistication. There is even an 4,000-seat amphitheater, the only one in the world carved into rock. The Street of Facades causes an intake of breath with each new view, leading to the Royal Tombs and another gasp.

It's not known exactly how old it all is, but they know the earliest signs of a city date from 300 BC. The place flourished before the first century BC as the center of the Nabateaen Empire. It was easily defended and well watered, and commerce was plentiful due to its proximity to major trade routes through the mountains and deserts.

They lived well and quietly for centuries, until the Romans annexed it around 100AD. It continued as a trade center until an earthquake destroyed parts of the city in 363AD. The trade routes changed, and the city's commerce dried up. It was then forgotten by most of the world for a thousand years. Since the 7th century, only the Bedouin have occasionally lived there, sheltering in the ancient sculpted caves, although not in recent years. It was rediscovered by westerners in the early 1800s.

We wandered the area where vendors sold trinkets, jewelry and mint tea. A cafe sold food, trinkets, and rented shisha, waterpipes filled with flavoured herbs or tobaccos. We watched and listened as a grizzled old man in ragged robes played a rebab, a single-stringed sort of spike fiddle traditionally valued for its voice-like sounds. Indeed, its strained strains matched the strain of the man's voice.

We bought sand sculptures, layered coloured sand paintings in a bottle, from a vendor pointed out to us by Mahmoud. Made from the sands of Petra, only certain artisans are permitted to use it in this way. Of course, the vendor gave our guide some baksheesh for bringing him customers, but Mahmoud gave it to Marianne, saying he didn't do that.

There is deep history and beauty here, and I could go on about it for pages and pages. However, there was entertainment as well. In addition to the horse-carts, which only ferried people from the main gate to the gorge entry, locals bring camels, donkeys and ponies to ride, for a fee, inside the city for those who, again, either wanted to do it for fun or to avoid the long rough walk.

Camels are stealthy. Not sneaky, but they move almost silently on their soft splayed feet. We would be quietly walking along and from behind we would hear a sudden, "Ho, hut!" We would turn to see four or five camels with riders, one of them waving us out of the way as the camels plodded by, almost silent except for the occasional, guttural weight-of-the-world groan.

Few of the riders looked enthusiastic as they swayed alarmingly from side to side in their saddles, clutching the pommel with white-knuckled fists. The camels got grumpier too, as the afternoon wore on.

The younger men and boys wrangled donkeys and ponies. There are few things more entertaining than watching a donkey who has simply had enough. More than once we saw a donkey realise he was not being watched, check the tension on its tackle and if it wasn't tied or held, bolt at top speed, gettin' the heck outta Dodge and away from the porky tourists! Boys on ponies took off after them, shouting as they dangerously weaved through the people and camels on the pathway, hurling curses at the fleeing donkey as if they might actually have an effect.

After several hours exploring the city, the walk back up through the gorge and up the hill to the tourist center was taxing. But we were going the other way, and the light was very different between midmorning and late afternoon. As we passed the same formations we had on our way in, we were struck by how different the walls of the canyons looked now, a different angle in a different light, bringing very different colours and shadows to their gentle curves and sudden angles.

Tired and exhilarated by our day, we headed for the front gate. Mahmoud had phoned Faiz to pick us up and the van was there as we exited the Center. Mahmoud opened the sliding door of the van. Faiz was in the back seat. Doug looked at him, confused. "What are you doing back there?" Grinning like a madman, Faiz held out the keys to Doug. We roared with laughter. He knew more English than perhaps we thought, and had picked up on Doug's disapproval of his driving.

Doug put up his hands. "Not a chance. You deal with the curves and the crazies."

So Faiz drove us slowly out of town, through the market area where sheep and cow heads wearing sunglasses decorated the front window of a butcher shop.

A final stop at another gift shop/restaurant run by brothers and cousins, clearly friends of Mahmoud and Faiz. Very hospitable folks, one of the brothers took Marianne and me up to the roof, which gave a fantastic vista across the valley and the eastern mountains, beyond which lies Israel.

Descending into the shop, I found Jane in conversation with one of the guys, who had a series of knives spread out on a countertop. I was beckoned over.

In Muscat, I had admired the decorative knives worn by many robed Arabs (men only, of course). Some very nice ones were spotted in the Emirates as well. The markets in Muscat carried a great variety, mostly junk, and the nice ones, real silver and metalwork, demanded a long haggling session. Searching for one in Salalah was disheartening as the goods were universally poor. Here, though, we had some quality of sorts.

Certified silver, the handle and scabbard were of traditional Jordanian design, a little different from the ones seen in Musact, Dubai and Abu Dhabi. The silver was guaranteed, said Mahmoud, and the workmanship was top of the line. The blade was disappointing. They claimed Damascus steel, but that might involve tipping the crucible towards Damascus as the steel is poured, and the workmanship was not that of a master craftsman. The first asking price worked out to over $700Cdn, so I didn't even want to enter negotiations.

I tried to back off gently, but one of the brothers said helpfully, "Now you make an offer." I said, "I don't want to insult you." "No, no, name a price!" I pulled $140US out of my pocket. "That's my best offer."

Everyone's faces fell. "We take plastic," a brother said hopefully. "Doesn't matter," I said, "That's the best I can do." A cousin's face clouded. "That doesn't even cover our cost," he said irritably.

"See, now I've insulted you. I'm very sorry." Not knowing how to handle this bargaining technique, they milled about uncertainly and Faiz and I took the opportunity to join the others, already in the van.

On the way out, we passed a coffee mortar, used to crush the coffee after it's fire-roasted with cardamom. These mortars are large, consisting of a stout stick protruding from a long-necked flat-bottomed container. Each family's mortar is differently shaped and the sound of the stick in the neck of the vessel and its impact inside is unique. These sounds and rhythms are unique and are aural signatures of a family or group. Faiz gave a little demonstration, coaxing some unique sounds from the implement. "This is the sound of my family. Come for coffee," he said rhythmically, in time with his thrusting of the stick into the hollow container to make a drumming noise. "Come for coffee." Thud-thud, thud, thud-thud thud.

On the drive back, we watched the sun sink over the western mountains, throwing up oranges and reds and yellow along the ridges and shadows. The moon came out full and lit the region in a pale floodlight, so that our views of the desert on the left and the mountains to the right were clear and distant. We easily cleared the security gate to the EEZ, waved through again at the mere mention of the magic word, "Canada."

Returning to the city center was jarring. After the emptiness and silence of the hills and flatlands of the countryside, the traffic, lights and noises of the city were unwelcome.

Tomorrow we will leave these things even further behind as we venture east and north, into the fabled deserts of Wadi Rum.

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Photos

Petra, Jordan
On our way to the Lost City.

Petra, Jordan
See the dark gash toward the lower right? That is the entrance to the Lost City of Petra!

Petra, Jordan
Walking through the Sif on our way to the City.

Petra, Jordan
The walls of the Sif rise dramatically on both sides.

Petra, Jordan
Marriage, the old fashioned Nabateaen way, with our guide, Mahmoud.

Petra, Jordan
The first gasp! Called 'The Treasury', it is actually a Burial Chamber.

Petra, Jordan
Playing the rebab.

Petra, Jordan
Another gasp! The amphitheater, carved out of rock, could seat 4,000!

Petra, Jordan
Yes, the colours of the rock are real.

Petra, Jordan
Stealth camels!

Petra, Jordan
Part of the Street of Facades. Note how miniscule the people are!

Petra, Jordan
Tired ponies at the end of the day.

Petra, Jordan
Exiting through the Sif. A different experience in afternoon light.

Petra, Jordan
Definitely a highlight of our trip!

Comments

[Doug and Marianne]

An excellent rendition of what actually happened. We are on pins and needles waiting for Wadi Rum
Thanks Paul and Jane