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...

Blog Sex-Up and "Then You Make Trouble for Us"

So I've been told I need to sex-up my blog. The problem is that I'm not really a blog type person. Even writing in cards gives me tremendous anxiety. There is too much pressure to write something clever, and off-the-cuff and usually someone is waiting for you to finish so you can seal the envelope and leave for the party. It seems when I do write something it's wholly inappropriate, which on second thought, the people may like this.

Also, I need to include tantalising/tantalizing (I'm aware of my dual Brit/American demographic) tales akin to sea-faring ventures and yes, this is the internet after all, people just want to gape at pictures to derive a sense-of-place. I'm sure soon the English language will just be character-based around Google images. In the interim, I will post so many pictures there will be no cure for my JPEG madness and you will regret what you asked for. So this ladies and gentlemen (I think it's just Marcus for the latter) is the beginning to my wholly narcissistic travel blog. But first, a story (and then pictures I swear!):

March 30th -- My first official day at work

Conversation took place partially in my crappy Arabic:

"What did you study? Why are you here?" -- Mr Khalil (a.k.a the workplace jokester)

"I specialised in the politics of the Middle East and I took Arabic in London." -- I said.

"Why?"

"Because it interests me and I like the language."

He responds with something fast, unintelligible/colloquial Arabic-y.

The work kitchen erupts in laughter.

"What? What did he say?" I asked.

An intern answers, "He said, 'Oh you come here study and work, then you go back to your country and make trouble for us."

"No! I don't work for my government!" I plead as the laughter drowns me out which I eventually join.

Well, he is right. In light of the past hundred years, I'm not sure anything I say could salvage the reputation of my part of the world in this part of the world (and I'm not so bold as to try!).

On Maiden Voyages

Pomp and Circumstance!

March 28th -- Arrive in Amman on EasyJet's (and my) maiden Jordanian voyage:

Three things I will never encounter again on an EasyJet flight

1.) Free Champagne

2.) Dignity?

3.) A welcome crew of 80 at the arrival destination actually happy to see our busted orange plane.

I think it was an appropriate beginning in a "dry" country to show up effectively "spirited" on Stelios's tab and to be doused with gallons of water by two adjacent fire trucks (I assure you there is enough water in this region to waste on ceremony).

There's a certain feeling I got as we flew over Israeli airspace (please no one leave their seats!) over the Dead Sea and into Jordan as if I could imagine myself in the reverse direction, months later, a bit excited, a bit melancholy, but happy that I make a habit to chase my impulses and my silly, unverifiable dreams (this could have been the booze talking).

We'll see how it goes then.