Wadi Hassa and the Dead Sea

May 25th and 27th - Wadi Hasa and The Dead Sea


To drown away my depression upon Marcus's departure, I agreed to go on a hike through Wadi Hassa the next day. When I heard "hike", I thought perhaps my undergarments would remain relatively dry as we walked across a dry wadi (I think we're all aware of my new-found fear of wet wadis). Well, wrong Brumley. Wadi Hasa is a canyon course complete with water slides, narrow siqs you can only swim through, cliff jumps and hot springs. Lonely Planet says it is a "moderate hike" but according to my bruises and scrapes, they are full of shit.

This jump took me 20 minutes to do! The sloping edge frightened me but here went nothing!

With that said, it was like a playground for physically able adults. I felt like a kid again.

Amongst Oleander and Wadis

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So the big 2-6 came around and I spent it at the Dead Sea with mio compadres. We decided upon O-Beach, full of Amman's spoiled class. Nevertheless, the buffet was killer and the infinity pool indeed an infinite line to the Dead Sea and the West Bank. As a warning, the Sea can sting your nether regions. Be prepared to tolerate a bit of pain induced by large salt crystals in places you least expect it.

Dead Sea Lagoon Creatures

My Towering Local

All Day, All Night -- The Sheraton

The Sheraton as viewed from my balcony:
Photo courtesy of my talented boyfriend Marcus!

I would just like to take this moment to pay homage to my local Sheraton. Essentially, I live very near it, I work very near it, I find many uses for it (usually centering around a certain devil's brew). It has a great faux-English pub with faux-English cricket memorabilia and a happy hour so full of cheap cocktails it should be called ecstatic hour. In the summer it houses and outdoor terrace bar called "The Sanctuary", which attracts some swanky clientele (no need to apply masses of horny, menacing males we call "shebebs" that can ruin the aura of any serene setting) but still manages to be largely unpretentious.

So here's to the Sheraton for putting out all those large and small fires in my daily life (thanks for the repeated ATM use too!).

Marcus in Arabia

May 19th-24th -- Marcus comes to visit!

Two weeks ago, Marcus (boyfriend or in less understanding parts of Jordan, my husband) arrived in Amman bright-eyed and bushy tailed. He had been here before but he was around 7 years old. Things have changed in Amman in 20 years surely, but the rest of Jordan, save for the rapid death of the Dead Sea, is an ossified version of its past.

Marcus outside St George's Church in Madaba

Our first day we went to Madaba after a leisurely brunch at Crumz in Abdoun. The area surrounding Crumz never ceases to disorientate me. It feels like I'm right back in a plaza in Florida! Abdoun's finest show up in their Juicy Couture "I gave up on life" sweatpants and their Filipino maids in tow. Strangely, it's also a haven for Amman's motorcycle enthusiasts.

Now back to Madaba. It is home to one of Jordan's largest Christian populations, with 1/3rd of the town being followers of Abraham's other son. It is best known for its mosaic at St. George's Church which is the oldest existing map of Palestine and parts of Egypt and Jordan. What was most memorable, however, was the restaurant Haradet Jdoudna. Marcus and I stumbled across is as we were looking for souvenirs. Lucky mistake because apparently (and according to the Rough Guide, I later acquired) it is "one of the best restaurants in Jordan." The labneh there was of perfect thickness, and the mixed grill, though not plentiful, was of star quality.

At Haradet Jdoudna - nothing like a mezze pick-me-up to restore those synapses

That night we went to Jafra, an old hippy hang-out in Amman, and home to Amman's most depressing oud player.

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The next day, we joined Marcus's Mum's friends for a personal tour of the Eastern Desert site of Umm al-Jimal, and a day at the Zumot winery near the Syrian border.

The basalt ruins of Umm-al Jimal (mother of the camel in Arabic)

Umm al-Jimal is the site of an ancient village, occupied primarily by the Romans, constructed out of the black basalt common in the Eastern reaches of Jordan. It is a hodgepodge of housing and old bunkers, and indeed one has to really use their imagination to place themselves in the time period, however, it is impressive in its size. The row black basalt buildings obtrusively assert themselves against the sky and the stretch of desert, and to enter buildings with arches intact and doors still opening, despite the rumbling fault line below, is worth the visit alone. In one room, a wine storage rack still stood, -- oh the Romans, lushes they were!

Omar's Winery - I belive this section were the Syrah grapes

After that, we went to the Zumot winery. It is an all organic vineyard, fertilised by the excrement of fishes that sit in a pond by the castello (I'm just incorporating some Tuscan vocabulary). It was inspiring to see Omar, the owner of the winery, talk about his wine like a proud father. The afternoon of wine drinking (not tasting really -- we were crunk), was topped off with a mixed grill (!) BBQ and a swim in the outdoor pool.

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So if mistakes are generally born out of good intentions, I think I should define my intentions before continuing any further. Marcus and I were to check in at Feinan Lodge which sits on Dana Nature Reserve. We were supposed to have a very romantic star-gazing session (did you hear they replaced lights from electric sources with that of a thousand candles?) and to, you know, not feel like the backpackers we are for just one night. OPERATIVE WORD BEING SUPPOSED TO...

On the edge of Karak (Castle)

Well, as Lonely Planet suggested, we took the King's Highway. It certainly is the most beautiful route down south but it is long. Very long. road sign markings in this country are few and far between as well, so I asked an officer in one town the direction to Karak. Coincidentally, he was from Karak and needed a ride. So in the car he went. I exhausted all my Arabic in a period of 30 minutes but I managed to find out this 26 year old police officer had 8 children. After dropping him off, we stopped off at Karak Castle, enough to learn about the dark history of the Crusades and to catch a view from Karak all the way to the Dead Sea.

We then drove off to Dana. Hours later, when we reached the Stone Village, I called Feinan. They didn't have my reservation. Also, we were supposed to take the Dead Sea Highway and because we didn't, we were an 1 1/2 hours away. I was confused. Feinan (or so I thought) called me to confirm just days before. Whilst I was melting down on the phone, Marcus consulted, through hand motions, a local Bedouin boy who told him there were plenty of hotels in the Village. We stopped by Dana Guest House Hotel, a part of the RSCN, until we backed out because of its high prices. We then settled on a strange place called Dana Tower Hotel. It is a kitschy mock set-up of the ancient stone village, with bedouin decor. Yes, it was a bit weird. However, for 30JD a night for two, you have a great rooftop view and friendly service from a "Welcome to Jordan" happy bedu and his Filipino staff. I guess the weirdness, cheapness and out-of-this-worldliness is more of Marcus and my style anyway. After a short hike, I received a call from Dana Guest House, the first place in the village we visited. They asked me why I had not arrived yet. What? Ooooh, I booked the wrong hotel after all! For some reason, I mixed up Feinan with Dana Guest House. Well, consider it serendipity.

Our happy mistake at our cooky hostel

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We decided, on a whim to go down to Wadi Rum the next day. It was a good decision. We hired a driver for two-hours and he took us around the main sites. Ok, so he dropped us off at the main sites. He wasn't the most talkative chap. The highlight was the sand dunes with piles of the deserts distinctive red-tinted sand. I will never cease to be fascinated by expansiveness. I shrink in size each time.

Sand doomed in Wadi Rum - no, we didn't plan on matching that day

(Near) Death in The Mujib

April 30th -- The Lowest Tomb on Earth

Ignorance of the future is surely bliss

I shall make this brief. To linger too long on my near demise will surely drive me into the grave I just avoided:

Water is the source of strife and life in this region. I am told there isn't enough of it. What I think that means is that there isn't enough until there is too much.
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I took a trip with my friends from the University of Jordan to the Wadi Mujib. The day was filled with jovial climbs through the Wadi populated with girls in soaked hijabs and abayas and the laughter of my friends and me filling the vast space they call the lowest valley on Earth. Had nothing gone wrong, I would have had another "amazing day in Jordan" notch on my belt. The siq leading to the large waterfall at the end was challenging, you had to hike through an endless zig-zagging canyon and somehow climb up four strong, mini-waterfalls, but the end product was worth it. We all packed inside a massive waterfall and watched the fury from the inside, whilst more adventurous hikers abseiled down it from above. Half our group went ahead but upon exiting the waterfall we found more distractions: a lazy river, a fun rock slide into a whirling pool of water.

Then it happened. As I waited for my friends to come down the rock slide, I heard panicked yells and mostly "Yalla"s coming from a guide in front of me at the second mini-waterfall. At first, I didn't realise the water below me was growing stronger, murkier, and higher. To switch the brain from harmless fun mode to life-threatening mode is quite a leap to take. It all happened too quickly, as all accidents do. Adrenaline competes to slow it down but it's efforts are never enough. Suddenly, I could not ignore the rising water as I barely managed to stand. That's when the guide's panicked "Yalla"s had alerted my survival instinct. This was a flash flood and I may not make it out alive.

The water was almost protozoan, exponentially begetting itself. There was no source in sight. I looked back to my friends and as they still struggled to get down the first waterfall. It was then the guide in front of me picked me up and threw me down the steep waterfall in front of us. There were now two more hurdles. I struggled with the second one. The water grew in strength and I could barely hang on to this metal bar afixed to the rock. It swung my body around and I couldn't manage to stand up and my head was forced up and under like a fishing bob. When I return to this in my mind I can't recall the exact details of how I gained footing and made it down to the final waterfall. I think my brain was less worried about making memories at this point in the off chance I wouldn't have any!

What I do remember was the feeling of abandonment and worry. The guide was more intent upon saving himself and in his brief appearances he was only speaking rapid Arabic. I was on my own, unable to ascertain our chances of survival, trailing just behind a group of girls whose names I didn't know. I couldn't manage to stand on the long-stretch out of the Wadi, the water which was at our ankles on the way in was now at our knees and it delivered its defeating blow with each step I could muster. I kept landing face down in the water. There was a stranger who helped me up and I eventually made it to the sandstone walls of the Wadi and used it as my guide out. Meanwhile, I worried about my friends. I knew they face greater dangers than me and higher, more muscular water.

At some point, I knew I was safe. The siq opened up and I could see the basin that lead out to the Dead Sea. I still felt no relief. The fear complexes that had awakened every useful limb and sense I had, were still running through me. It was raining heavily at this point and I stood on the metal platform above the Wadi and waited for my friends. I saw glimpses of them 25 minutes later. I hugged them and listened to their stories through panting breathes and weak, but comforting, attempts at humour. They were too abandoned and left at the first waterfall. My two female friends nearly drowned trying to save each other. Had they not had our male friends with them to pick them up by the neck, I fear they wouldn't have made it out alive. We try not to think about this too much.

So were there signs of danger before we went in? We knew it was raining heavily in Amman but the water from there does not reach the Wadi Mujib. It is supplied by tributaries near Karak, which was not expecting rain, and which quickly overwhelmed the dam that should control the water levels. It is extremely rare for the end of April to bring flash floods, but such was our luck.

It is entirely exhausting to accept that you may not exist and your last thought would be a helpless plea to God or the Universe or to whomever may care about your tiny body on a large, unforgiving Earth, and can actually do something about it (who makes this Rolex again?). And it is hard to think about the people and reasons you want to stay alive. These thoughts still manifest as cryptic nightmares that I struggle to digest.

I know I will tell this story repeatedly throughout my life, and that it will serve as a constant reminder of the bell tolling for me and thee, but I will try and meet it with a laugh and a foreshadowing prelude that goes something like "So once, I almost died in Jordan..." It might go well with "So once, I almost died in Latvia..." and "So once, I was caught in between gang crossfire London..." Welcome to my life.

Easter Feast

April 24th -- Mt Nebo and Dibeen

This past Easter Sunday, my roommate asked me to join her and Jordan's Christian community (i.e. Filipinos) for a sunrise service on Mt. Nebo, where Moses is said to have died before seeing the Promised Land. I think if he evaluated the present state of this Land with all it's political turmoil and lack of water today he may not have been so fussed about reaching it and and perhaps would have gone no further than a beach hut in the Sinai!

The day was beautiful, the view of the Dead Sea and the neighbour's hood, stunning, and despite having to wake up at 4am to experience it, it's fits neatly on my "Do Everything" list, check!! Also, it confirmed my suspicions that the Blood of Christ is best represented by a fine, vintage Port rather than grape juice.

The view from Mt Nebo: I did more this day before 7am than I probably will in a year

After that, we joined my roommate's friends at a picnic in the North near Ajloun at Dibeen National Park. I was expecting a few cheese sandwiches and some Aquafina but these are hungry Jordanians after all. They had numerous bags of meat, vegetables and their nargileh in tow. We ended up feasting for hours and enjoing the shade of Dibeen's flora. I was introduced to a Jordanian BBQ classic called 3rayis (which shares its names with the Arabic word for 'bride'). It is grilled pita bread stuffed with marinated mince meat and olive oil. Kan huwe zakki ktir (It was very delicious!).

There is an unmodest picnic beneath that plastic

A rare glimpse of green in Jordan

Beirut Baby!

April 14th-17th -- The Paris of the Middle East, except with pleasant people

On our way to Beirut a few weekends ago, we had to board a plane rather than use the conventional bus route through Syria. This is due to a.) me not having a visa for Syria b.) and oh yeah, it's all falling to shit there. It seems leaders after leaders fail to grasp (perhaps there isn't enough oxygen seeping into that tiny bubble they live in), that dissatisfaction should be met with reform, not tanks and bullets. Citizens are not an invading army.

Well, here we are again back to Beirut. It's a short flight, but there is enough time to strip down your layers so by the time you get there you are 2 feet of fabric away from your birthday suit. It's Beirut baby...the Middle East diluted with a generous spritz. Time to let those pale shoulders and thighs sing (to Fairuz that is)!

Beirut is instantly recognisable in that it looks like a city (please read below for a comparison to Amman which does not). We stayed at Saifi Gardens, nice hostel/Arabic language school conveniently located next to big boozie, Gemmayze, but it could have been a tad cleaner. We did the typical stroll on the Corniche at sunset, drinks in Hamra, a walk around the American University of Beirut, and H&M stop (ok, that isn't so conventional but we were with two Swedes!).

Towards the Gemmayze watering-holes we go

There are a number of bizarre things about this crazy Mediterranean town, however, (which all have explanations so keep reading on):

1.) You can get American dollars from ATMs and use it as currency
2.) Some buildings are as new as a fad and others (usually right next to the new ones) are abandoned and derelict.

3.) The most iconic and harrowing remnant of the war is the towering and heavily mortared Holiday Inn. Why the hell is it still standing?

4.) Beirut kind of looks like it could have served as the backdrop to a Buena Vista Social Club documentary.
5.) Newly restored Downtown, is pristine and quiet like a movie set.

6.) You really shouldn't take out your camera near Army men

7.) Are there really 18 religions and sects?

Lucky for us, we optioned for a "Walk Beirut" tour, which came widely recommended from like-minded travelers. It's run by ginger-haired Lebanese guy named Ronnie (he swears he's Lebanese, right) who occassionally receives help from his friends. Ronnie unraveled Beirut for us; all of it's mysteries and past glories. He told it's story like a professional, a man who knows his pauses lead to effects and to create a cohesive view of a place, once must get to know its residents. This is no easy task for a country with 18 official religions and sects who all walk above Phoenician ruins. Do you remember how your Kindergarten teacher would oscillate an open book to your illustration-hungry classmates cross-legged on the floor? It was kind of like that.

Ronnie, the ginger Beiruti

The most magical thing about Ronnie's walking extravaganza was that he answered every question we could pack into our tiny tourist brains over two days so to return to the numbered inquiries above:

1.) The dollar used to be heavily counterfeited since the Pound was the same size so they have been using them interchangeably since; even small shops now are equipped with quite sophisticated counterfeit detection devises.

2.) You cannot occupy a building until the original owner or his/her offspring (usually of the diaspora) sells the property. The Lebanese diaspora is more than 4 times the population of people actually in Lebanon and many are unaware they have inherited property! Also, many buildings on the Green Line (the division between East and West during the Civil War) were abandoned, thus adding to the juxtaposition between the new and derelict.

Uhh, does some Lebanese Brazilian want to claim me?

3.) The Holiday Inn is owned by the Emir of Kuwait who is hesitant about dismantling it and rebuilding something on the spot until Lebanon is more stable...in'shallah.

The Hostile Inn: a remnant of war

4.) Turns out that Ottoman-French-Lebanese architecture=Cuban aesthetics (at least in my eyes!)

My what a nice harem you have

5.) Solidere is the private investment firm in charge of rebuilding Beirut after the Cold War. They did such a good job that no one can afford the property Downtown.

Soulless Solidere

6.) Most of Beirut is unphotographable! You cannot take photos in some areas for security or privacy reasons.

[Not pictured]

7.) The last census was taken in 1932. Probably not.

16 more to go...

Beirut's future is perpetually indeterminate. Currently, it has no government and it is still dealing with the aftershocks of Prime Minister Rafik Hariri's assassination in 2005 where a certain party of the Almighty stationed in Southern Lebanon is surely to be implicated.

The Lebanese are no stranger to war nor displacement. I am curious how people live with, around, amongst, beside war(s). I grew up with first-world guarantees that tomorrow will be as stable as today and the day before that because surely disaster would never strike a Floridian suburban town. In the words of my tour guide Ronnie after some post-tour beers, "Uncertainty means no one really talks about their future here," later he added, "And we don't discuss politics when we go out." So with that, I gulped down my beer and resigned myself to enjoy what Beirut had to offer right then and there: a two-for-one special, good chat and good company. I felt happy, buzzed, content. Three things political discussions have rarely made me feel!

Around Amman

Tales of An Accidental City Part 1-- April City Excursions

I have yet to post an account of where I spend most of my Jordanian days and nights: the Ancient city of Philadelphia. Apparently, Amman is the oldest, continuously lived-in city. I wouldn't say this is clutching at straws but I would say, as in the case of the LSE's similar declaration of housing "the world's largest social science library", that it may be an embellished superlative. Compared to surrounding Arab cities, take the antebellum charisma of Beirut, and the flossiness of stupidly-minted Dubai, Amman can appear underwhelming. The city has the feel of an overnight pop-up suburb with deja-vu housing. Indeed, if there was ever a modern city planner here, I would like to meet this person and clarify what visual-spatial disorder he/she may possess.

All that aside, beneath the architectural uniformity and the incongruity, there are many hidden gems. I do have a great fondness for Amman so I'd like to share the good, bad and ugly. This is the first part in my series on life in the Big City (Ok, I don't think this will be a long-series, I don't want to oversell!).

These streets aren't made for walkin'

Perhaps we should start where many dare not to tread alone: Amman's sidewalks.

As alluded to earlier, Amman is notoriously unwalkable. I assume the sidewalks are designed for ants as they are they are accustomed to frequent strolls in gravel as most "walk"ways tend to end suddenly as if someone took a sledge hammer to it. I am also confident ants have very low expectations as to how far they will get in a day.

I am one those Western freaks who takes to these Ammani streets. My house is so close to my work that I can't justify taking a cheap cab ride and ending up in my backyard. As close as it is, I wouldn't say it's pleasant crossing a four-lane road every morning. In fact, this attracts a number honks from passing cars, either from men who like to express their sexual frustration in honks or from drivers who would like to state they disapprove of my penchant for putting one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. In addition to the Popeye's Chicken establishments, this is another feature Amman has in common with a southern American suburb. You just don't walk if you aren't expecting to get a few bemused stares.

There are a few places where anxious Western feet are welcomed, however. And then God said, "Let there be Rainbow Street!"

A "you-can-walk-here" beacon!

Rainbow Street is Amman's answer to East London. It's cobblestoned walkways are dotted with cute cafes (ok, mix in a bit of Edgware Road because of the prevelance of nargileh) and handicraft shops. It also has a great outlook over the city where young boys with their musical toys can be seen around sunset serenading their friends. Some highlights:

1.) The Falafel Sandwich place: I'm sure this has an actual name but I have only zoned in on the 35-50 piastre runny hummus/falafel sandwiches. It's a hole-in-the-wall and completely unmissable. There is a picture on the wall of Dave Milliband visiting the joint. Enough said.

2.) Wild Jordan: This is a Western-style cafe/restaurant. It features healthy food options that run in line with its commitment to nature conservation (it's a platform for the RSCN to display their goods) but the real reason you should come is for the fresh juice and views of the Roman Citadel.

My friend Sura and me at Wild Jordan

3.) Books @ Cafe: It's probably the most renowned expat cafe but it also has a local vibe. The staff are friendly and the food and drinks reasonably priced.

4.) The Jordan River Foundation showroom: The JRF employs several bedouin women to design modern cloth for the bedroom and it really has me drooling. The price tag and my Easy Jet weight limit, however, keep me from buying anything!

@ The JRF Showroom: The pillows of my dreams

Less you think I arrive in the East looking for the West...I actually prefer the more traditional parts of Downtown Amman to Rainbow Street, despite it not being as walker friendly. There you find good food at local prices and you get a real sense of how energetic and close-knit the city can feel before it sprawled to the outlying hills. Recently, I visited Hashem Restaurant and Habibah for criminally cheap food with a few of my Mom's friends. (My Mom met an older couple in Florida who have long forgone the comforts of 5-Star hotels -- I got the sense they could more than afford them too! -- and have decided to travel through nearly 150 countries like a pair of backpacking youths).

Bill, 90 years old and still enjoying life...and falafels at Hashem Restaurant

Barbara Roy and I enjoying Kunafa at Habibah - it is shredded wheat over sweet cheese and it's packed with more than the recommended daily amount of sugar

Reem al Bawadi: Don't ask me, or a taxi driver for that matter, how exactly to get here besides a prayer and some survival Arabic, but if you do figure it out (you, the Lonely Planet equipped) it's worth all the leg-work put in. Reem al Bawadi is a bedouin/Lebanese-style mezze restaurant. The space inside is endless, the service prompt, and the food is excellent (ok, so my food vocabulary isn't the most refined). The best features though are the stuffed sheep hemorhagging asbestos. It makes for a great photo opportunity. There was also a man outside with a tilted carriage that took us for a ride behind the Hardees and Burger King -- it was a stroll through Central Park Amman style.

Reem al-Bawadi - Bedouin Posers

Petra and The Case of the Flat Tire

9 April -- Petra Excursion

It is obvious I am a little behind on my blogging (I do have a day job! And aside from Arianna Huffington and those post-partpartum housewives I'm not sure "professional blogging" is anything more than a euphemism for "unemployed"). I am writing two weeks later in my apartment watching a torrential rainstorm hit the streets of Abdoun. First the rain was a mere tease to the sun weary until a few minutes ago the sky unleashed hail...buckets of it. Yes, we are in the Middle East and I should have believed the experienced when they said Amman was not your typical dry desert outpost. I think it's nearly 10 degrees (C) colder than sunny London but luckily I've noticed when moves outside of the usually grey UK, an obsession, or rather, competition with weather does assuage. So take that Londoners I don't care anyway! ;)

You're hailed!

Let me bring you back to a sunny Saturday two weeks ago, when three girls set out to Petra without a plan or a car.

After haggling with 10 or so rental companies we finally settled on one that gave us a battered Nissan Sentra (this was my car as a teenager -- perhaps it was sentimentalism) and full insurance. Off we were...well, add 40 minutes for us to figure out how to exit Amman...another 10 for us to follow a man with a finger brush, who offered to show us the right way...and off we were down the Desert Highway! The Highway is really the red-headed step-child of the Jordanian Highway family compared to the magnificent King's Highway, but it's a far more expeditious route so beauty be damned.

Camel-Crossing Along the Desert Highway

Two 1/2 hours later, there we were. Petra. Land of the Nabataeans (wait, let me get my Lonely Planet) who first settled in these rose-red surroundings around 6BC. Much of its grandeur remains hidden and indeed only curious and appreciative tourists can discover more of Petra's beauty beyond the iconic Treasury and Siq.

We met a fellow expat there who was friends with my roommate and whom is dating a local Bedouin. This is surprisingly common. Much of the folklore coming from the Ammani expat scene revolves around European hotties dating dashing desert wanderers. After much questioning, I have concluded the appeal lies in their exotic dark looks and teasing sense of humor. Is this enough to lure a woman from her Western comforts to a modest house in the desert...from mani/pedis and champagne brunches to flatulent camels and mansaf? I'm not so convinced but it does happen and happen often!

So a Canuck, two Floridians and a Swede trot into Petra...

We rode on horseback (perks of befriending a girlfriend of a Bedouin) to the Siq then hopped off and wandered on foot through the narrow passageway leading to the Treasury. From there it all unfolds in ways I have seen many times in pictures. The narrow passage opens up to reveal the glorious Treasury (actually a tomb built for the Nabataean King Aretas III) with its emulative Greek columned-facade. Impressive as this may be, this was not a trip defined by the limits of a tour and postcard iconography.

The Petra-esque Treasury

Our real Petra adventure started when we climbed up to the High Place of Sacrifice. There we met a Bedouin named Neal (ok, his name was probably made-up). He very kindly showed us the back way down from the High Place and I was even offered a ride on his donkey Shakira ("See how she moves," clever, until you meet other asses named Shakira). We stumbled upon recently excavated banqueting halls and tombs, posed for pictures and then went on our way.

On Top of the World or a Place of Sacrifice

We were headed for the monastery until Neal saw his friends chilling in an ancient cave and we were invited for tea. After climbing up to the rectangular box (think Lego fortress in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids) we noticed a woman -- a very wrinkly, over-sexed French woman -- on her own with young bedouins beside her. "She has been with us for 10 days," they told us. Ok, well define "been with". There is a rumor that circulates around this vast Wadi that a certain group of Western women, lone venturers, go out to the desert for sex-holidays with suntanned Bedouin men. I can't confirm this was her purpose for traveling but I will nevertheless read her jealousy at the sudden appearance of us -- three women in their 20s with taut neck skin -- into her love cave, as confirmation of her deviance. Next, Neal applied kohl to my friends' eyes mainly by using his spit to adjust his ill-executed eye lines. Luckily, I had eye-liner on or I fear I'd be writing this and battling pink-eye.

Tea with the strange French lady

Neal's friends offered to scam (I mean take!) us through the Roman section and back to the Siq on their donkeys. We complied. The Bedouin guides with us would hop on intermittently, and I uncomfortably tried to scoot my straddled legs away from my guide and hold on to the back of the saddle rather than wrap my arms around a stranger's arms (quite possibly the same arms that held a French tourist the night before). We were foolish to think this was for free and we made the suggested payment of 15JD each as they happily trotted off leaving us with a cheated feeling at the Treasury (irony?).

Back that ass up

It was late by this point and it takes a good 35 minutes to walk up to the parking lot past the Movenpick Hotel. By the time we left Petra it was 7.30pm and a Jordanian Saturday is actually the last night of the weekend so the 300 km journey back (add the extra stress of my friend needing to catch a 6AM flight back to the States the next day) was met with some exhausted sighs. There were four of us at this point as we were taking our expat friend back. Through the one-camel town Ash-Shoback, nearly 30 minutes out of Petra, on a cliff-top road, our car started shaking and hopping. Oh no. Is this a flat tire? We stopped. Without missing a beat we all jumped out of the car and looked for the car jack and the spare. "Does anyone know how to actually change a tire?" a wise voice chirped up through our adrenaline-fueled industriousness. A resounding "No" followed. Yet, we went to work.

We tried, and tried, and we almost got somewhere until a car passed, stopped and backed up just in front of ours. One tall man in a black garment and two young men hopped out and muttered something in Arabic that could probably best be translated as "Move out of the way bitches, we got this." With Nascar garage efficiency they changed our tire and convinced us to go back to their place, whatever this place was, to fix the spare. We got back in the car and it started hopping and shaking again. Oh no. The spare was also bad. We pulled over and one of them offered to drive us to their...wait is this a garage? Are you all mechanics? It was one of those moments in life where a problem was met with the optimal solution. Like a toddler putting a wooden triangle neatly into the triangle shaped hole, there we were with three mechanics on a platter. They reopened their shop and we sat in the office next door. Mohammed turned on a heater and TV (to a channel playing a William H Macy film as ancient as Petra itself) whilst they worked magic on our beleaguered tires. When they finished they wouldn't even accept a tip. After that triumph of humanity and chance, we set back to Amman (at a slow, safe speed). "Text us when you get home," Mohammed, the eldest man said to us.

Tire magic happened here

NXNW

2 April -- Country Roads: Ajloun and Mar Elias

I was cornered in my drowsy Saturday state-of-mind with the proposition of a northward drive with my roommates. I make a habit of saying "Yes" to adventure or at least half-heartedly mumbling it with the understanding I never regret weekend outings but I nearly always regret sleeping-in.

A Qasr with a view

Once you leave Amman towards the North the Earth opens up to reveal the country's green underbelly (again, Springtime has skewed my vision of Jordan in the most pleasant of ways). The drive takes you through Jerash, which houses a wealth of history and ruins that we drove right past (time was a-tickin!). Near Jerash sits Ajloun Castle or Qala'at Ar-Rabad is a 12th Century gem built by an Islamic military general 'Izz ad-Din Usama bin Munqidh mainly to keep those pesky Crusaders out. Also, it served as a meeting point for messenger pigeons on their morning flights from Damscus to Cairo (right? I didn't know pigeons were good for anything either).

Mar Elias -- ancient church apse

Next on the whirlwind tour of the North was Mar Elias, the birthplace of the Prophet Elijah (a significant site for both Muslims and Christians as he's down with both hood teams). It's a beautiful place that sits atop a hill where early 7th Century churches peak through excavated Earth. Although it is unclear as to whether this was previously a village, the residence of the mid-wife, or if Elijah's mother just decided to pop one out on a hill because she enjoyed the view. At any rate, I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be discussing this so precariously.

My roommates saving the life of a turtle/delaying his inevitable violent death via car

After Mar Elias, we returned to Jerash to eat at the famous Lebanon House (we were reminded several times Richard Gere ate here and now that I think about it, he does strike me as a man with good taste). I'm a huge fan of food though I'm not a critic -- I think a prerequisite for this is that one be discerning -- with an extensive food vocabulary but I think the only way to express how positively delicious our meal was is through a series of expletives (I'll let you fill this in). Food here is just damn good.

Lebanon House mezze lunch (space reserved for Shish Tawouk)

The Hunt for the Black Iris

1 April -- South to Wadi ibn Hamad

I was invited recently by a friend-of-a-friend to join a coalition of long-time and recent expats on a day trip from Friday protests and Amman. One member of the group, a water engineer by day (this region is short of water not water consultants) and an artist by night, was keen to see the Jordanian National Flower, the black iris, in bloom as he is a painter of all things Mid-Eastern. We need only to take a connected road off the King's Highway to catch sight of these deep purple wonders. They were beautiful but my flower vocabulary is as extensive as my Arabic one so I mainly paparazzi'ed the many clusters found along the long-stretch of road to fit-in with the more excited members of the group. I have heard they are rare and conditions have to be just right to see them so I'm glad I was able to share in the luck and insider's knowledge.

A hive (?) of black irises

This trip was my first out of Amman and I welcomed the open-fresh air and the ability to walk without meeting high, abruptly ending sidewalks. The landscape varies (I suppose though variation is a Spring luxury, see: Future Posts) from patches of green to dusty red and brown; from narrow wadis to table-top mountains.

Yessir, Yessir Three Bags Full: On the way to the King's Highway

The King's Highway meets the Wadi Mujib Outlook. As a Floridian any amount of depth and scale fascinates me. Florida is the pre-pubescent girl of the world, not a valley or peak in site. Unfortunately, the desert sands were agitated overnight so it limited what should have been a more expansive view.

The Wadi Mujib Outlook

Near the Wadi Mujib is Wadi ibn Hamad, a wet wadi (this is the actual term. I will pause so you can get the giggles out). Here a river runs through two cliffs and we were knee-high in warm spring water. It's a lesser-known Wadi and indeed the only tourists were Jordanians (just follow the line of plastic bottles!).

Between a rock and...ok too obvious

The beauty of the Wadi is hard to convey in words partly because my awe at its shale white cliffs, palm tree canopies and waterfalls was twirled around a complex of many other emotions that I am only now deciphering as I'm writing. I suppose much of it is pure happiness. I am thankful to be out of my 9-5 which was oh-so incongruous to my ball-grabbing 20s spirit. I am not even sure if this research position I have in Amman will lead to bigger and better things but I couldn't resist trying on the Arab-world for size. It is the region I claim to specialise in after all.

Here is to a hurrah but not my last!

All Good Things Come Boiled in Yoghurt

March 31st -- Dinner @ Jebri

Victory...

So post-work drinks here are obviously still a big'un for the expat crowd but what do you do on a Thursday ('s the new Friday) night in Amman if you are 3 G&Ts shy of being an expatoholic? Answer: You go on an urban hunt for Mansaf. The best place, so I'm told, this side of the Wadis, is Jebri. Ideally, you would have eaten nothing the whole day in preparation but luckily, my stomach also functions as a rather spacious butcher's fridge. Mansaf is really the only distinctly Jordanian dish. It is lamb cooked in fermented yoghurt and served with yellow rice.

...and defeat

Having consulted a Jordanian colleague prior to my first taste I got a rather confusing: "It's a very, very nice dish. I hate it." However, after eating mansaf, I think there is more to this statement than mere grammatical error. It is delicious, the yoghurt naturally takes away from the game-y taste of lamb without a mint jar in sight (are you listening lady England?), and rice is always a plus in my half-Asian book, but you can easily overstep your tolerance for such a heavy dish. Think a Bedouin Thanksgiving...