Jordan, Day 2 (part 2)

Monday, November 17 (cont)

Abdullah and I head down the road, past horse carts, under grey skies and the menace of rain.  I tell him I’ve requested no rain.  “Inch Allah,” he replies.  I tell him I’ve been very good and perhaps will merit His mercy, which makes him smile... luckily.  Must keep a close rein on my flippant, liberal comments.  But he’s young and I’m old enough to be his mother.

       Petra starts off slow, with a few troglodyte caves and then the “djinn cubes”, really huge stone blocks several stories high with no doors.  Later generations thought only djinns - spirits - could get inside them.  But people were buried from above, their bodies lowered into a cavity.  It makes me think of the Zoroastrian Towers of Silence, but I see no vultures or even eagles in the Jordanian skies during my entire stay.

       Then it’s the Siq (the shaft), a long, narrow, winding gorge Abdullah says was created by an earthquake and then carved out more by water and wind erosion.  All different colors of stone, with only touches of green - fig trees hanging from crevices, caper bushes and castor oil plants.  The Siq twists and turns for 1.2 kilometers (3/4 of a mile), sometimes so narrow that two horsecarts can’t cross.  At the sound of hoofbeats on the sand or on some of the Roman paving stones not torn up to build other structures over the centuries, one cart has to stop and wait for the other to pass.  The sky is something far away, high above, sometimes the equivalent of 70 stories up, the undulating walls smoothed over the millennia to perfection.

Khazneh

       Suddenly this gorge empties us into the square of the Khazneh, one of the highlights of this immense ancient Nabataean city which once had a population of up to 37,000.  Here again, later generations ignored what it had once been and, thinking such an amazing building must hide a treasure, they tore it apart, even breaking into its characteristic urn high up on the facade.  But it’s just another mausoleum.  A glorious one of arresting beauty.
       Picking our way among the camels and donkeys all saddled to promenade tourists (who have not come this season), it’s a slow, admiring walk past tomb after tomb, each decorated differently but displaying some common elements, such as the Nabataean step design on top of the facades.  Every statue decorating these tombs has been defaced by what Abdullah calls the Iconoclasts. The name comes up again and again, lending credence to my worry that someday some religious faction could come and destroy all these wonders, as the Taliban did when it blew up the 5th century Buddha statues of Bamiyan.  And then I would have missed the beauty, forever.  So I have come now, Daesh/ISIL be damned.*
       We finally arrive at the amphitheater, originally built much smaller but expanded by the conquering Romans to seat 8,000!  We’ll get a better view tomorrow, from above, promises Abdulllah.  For now it’s back to the hotel, via a bumpy horsecart ride which I do not recommend for those with bad backs.

Amphitheater

After dinner, buffet-style (and not alone), it’s “Petra by Night”.  A long slog down the Siq and back, all lit by paper lanterns set on the ground on either side.  A nice, simple light-and-sound show in between, with mint tea served as we sit on Bedouin rugs.  First, by candlelight, a musician, hidden by the dark, plays a shepherd’s flute.  Then a string instrument accompanied by a long song in Arabic.  And finally muted red and white lighting alternately illuminates the Khazneh’s facade, to the overpowering strains of O Fortuna from Carmina Burana, music befitting the grandiose and ultimately doomed city of Petra, once so mighty and now deserted, except for tourists.  Ozymandias.  Quite magical.
       Standing in line, I’d met Bruce and Lisa from Arlington, and their guide.  That makes for interesting conversation during the long walk down and back up the canyon.  This is part of their Bucket List too, the comment overheard that started our discussion.  They’ll be touring Petra tomorrow so maybe we’ll meet again.  But for now, it’s a shower and bed.

Petra at dusk

*On the date of my posting this (Feb. 27, 2015), a video has just been released by Daesh, showing their henchmen taking sledgehammers to the ancient artifacts in the Mosul Museum.  Destroying millennia of irreplaceable masterpieces that taught us so much about ancient cultures.  It made me cry.  It also showed me how right I was to visit Petra before such things happen here, again.  Not that Jordan is a target... yet.  But if it ever is, Daesh will just finish what the Iconoclasts started centuries ago, but with power tools.  I hope and pray that never happens.

Jordan, Day 2 (part 1)

St. George's Greek Orthodox Church, and Fakhrey

Breakfast is not a strong point of the Mosaic Hotel, but I ate enough mixed grill last night to hold me for a while.
 

Mosaic map of Jerusalem, 6th c.

       Fakhrey is right on time and we head off at 8:30 for Petra.  But first a quick look at St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church (fee:  1 JD, “for services”, which may mean candles... or upkeep).  It has ancient mosaics all over inside, including, on the floor, a 6th century map of the region, and especially of Byzantine Jerusalem, the earliest mosaic of it that has survived.  There are many mosaic icons on the walls, but I think it’s the crown of candles that wins my heart.

The desert road is boring but fast - only three hours instead of five.  We stop halfway at the MidWay Castle, mostly as a break for Fakhrey and a rest stop for both of us.  Inside is a souk of gigantic proportions - I’m presuming they never take inventory - plus a restaurant.  The toilet stalls come equipped with showerheads which must be a blessing on hot, dusty summer days There are no towels but a man outside the doors offers me three kleenex so I can wipe my hands... and give him a tip.  This place provides employment for dozens. Unfortunately for those dozens, we were almost the only visitors there, either because of the hour or more probably because of the regional unrest among Jordan’s neighbors.  As the woman at the Jordan Tourist Board in Paris put it:  “Some of our neighbors are rather raucous.”  ISIL (or Daesh as it’s called here) has created problems for the entire region.*
       On the road again we pass Bedouins with tents, Bedouins with sheep, Bedouins with camels.  I see several UNHCR-emblazoned tents along the way, perhaps provided to Syrian or Iraqi refugees who opted to distance themselves from the border (see above).  And of course there are many, many semis on their way to the port of Aqaba, either to pick up or deliver goods for import/export.  Plus numerous police cars parked, just waiting for speeders on this long, straight stretch of asphalt.
       Finally we pull off the desert highway and onto a road that winds back and forth, up and down.  The landscape grows greener and the air cooler.  We’re in the hills now and suddenly we enter a town named... Showbak!  Fakrey is amused when I tell him that’s my name (at least phonetically and with his accent.  “These are my people!” I tell him, spreading my arms in an all- embracing gesture... and we both laugh.  Showbak turns out to be a lot tidier than Madaba.
       A few minutes down the road, Fakhrey points... and there’s Petra.  He drops me at the Petra Moon Hotel and says good-bye for 44 hours.  He’ll be back for the return trip.  He’s adopted me.  Maybe because of Showbak.

Petra in the distance

I drop my things in the room and don’t even bother to eat.  Petra, the archeological wonder I’ve read about ever since I was a child, Petra, a place I’ve dreamed about visiting for decades, Petra is right there - across the street. I take the cookie and water Fakhrey brought for me for the road trip... and I’m off.
       Once I’ve bought my ticket, a man walks me over to the guides.  “What language you want?” he asks.  “English or French,” I answer.  And what an excellent answer that was.  For an English-speaking guide, I’d have to wait a bit, but this man’s brother Abdullah lived in France.  (Turns out later Abdullah admits he only spent two weeks there and picked up his excellent French right here at home.)  Abdullah it is then.  His Bedouin family is from Petra, lived in the cave houses until 1980.  He tells me stories his grandfather told him about the days of Ottoman rule, how they had to pay tribute in money or in goods or services, the hardship that was.  He also tells me about the history and architecture of all the buildings, and it’s exactly what’s in the books; nothing made up, just to please.  Abdullah really knows his stuff.

*Note:  This was written in mid-November, well before the Jordanian pilot was shot down and executed, and before the Jordanian Air Force flew reprisal raids.  Things can only have gotten worse since then.


(Take a look at this dizzy-inducing video to get a feeling for the MidWay Palace, although there was no music playing when we were there, almost no lights on, practically no one except us... and I didn’t see the bobble-head camel, which I regret!  I do remember being told, “Buy two, get one free”, but I didn’t.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o--BOiTzak0)

Jordan - Day 1

Sunday, Nov. 16

And so it begins.  The adventure.  My first trip to the Asian continent, to an Arab country, to a place that doesn’t write in characters that I can read even if I don’t know the language.  And only two words of Arabic.  One is walou, which means “nothing”, at least in North African Arabic, but is more like the “whatever” that my daughter used to hand me, complete with an eye roll; I don’t think I’ll be using that very much.  The second I’ll use a lot: shukran (thank you).
       The taxi is on time - a huge van, just for me and my one carry-on.  No handbag this time; just a coin purse around my neck, barely large enough for my passport, a few credit cards and
some money.  No computer, no phone; just a camera.  For those National Geographic moments, of which there will be many.  Because...
       I’m going to Petra!

The Royal Jordanian flight to Amman (half the cost of Air France) takes four hours and 20 minutes.  My daughter would approve of the safety instructions projected because they’re in cartoon form, albeit not nearly as much fun as those on the LAN flights we took in South America.  There is also an ad using stick figures for reporting child abuse, which is interesting; I’ve never seen that on any other airline.
       I set the screen to the “map” function so I can follow our progress.
       This is obviously not an American flight.  Peanuts are served with the drinks - the fear of anaphylactic shock has obviously not overtaken Jordan yet.  The next surprise is the meal choice:  no pasta, but rather a choice of chicken, “white fish” or... beef!  To be eaten with silverware!  (Well, maybe not silver, but metalware, not plasticware.)  And after-dinner tea comes with an optional lemon slice. How civilized.
       We take off and head east - the opposite direction than I’m used to.  The sky remains cloudy all the way, except over the Mediterranean, which shines golden to starboard.  According to the digital map, we fly over Trieste, Sarajevo - now peaceful - Greece and then in over Israel.  The clouds warm to an iridescent rose as the sun sets and we arrive in Amman in the dark.

     The brand-new airport - open only a year and a half now - is spacious, clean and all marble.  Queen Alia, for whom it’s named, would be proud, had she not died in a helicopter crash years ago.
       At the airport, I change euros to Jordanian dinars - which the young clerk calls piastres.  (I thought that was an archaic currency but the word is on one of the coins; it turns out to be our equivalent of “cents”.)  With my new money, I buy my visa (40 Jordanian dinars), then have my photo taken and my passport stamped... and that’s it.  I’m officially in Jordan.
       With only carry-on, baggage claim is one less hurdle to clear, and Fakhrey is waiting for me with a sign as I exit, as the hotel promised.  He will become my driver for my entire stay, but I don’t know that yet.
       Traffic is sparse on the backroad into Madaba, but a bit lawless.  Fakhrey uses the shoulder to pass a truck, I think is probably not allowed, but I say nothing.  What do I know about Jordanian driving etiquette?  Then he points at a truck driving along merrily on the wrong side of the divided highway.  Lucky there are no on-coming cars!
       In spite of all that, Fakhrey brings me safely to the Mosaic Hotel (which has no mosaics, but the town’s churches do).  Here I dine alone in the cavernous dining room, and I do mean alone.  I’m the only one there.  They either eat later than 7:00 or maybe there’s no service this Sunday, because that shy girl behind the desk (whom the reservations people have left all alone) says the chef isn’t there but I can have a mixed grill.  It comes with pita bread, a roasted whole tomato and onion... and enough meat for a family of four (chicken, lamb and kefta).  They’ve gone to some trouble to make me this, so I finish it off, every last bite, and waddle up to my room.  (An hour later I go back down and the restaurant is dark again. So yes, they opened up the kitchen and cooked some food just for me.)
       I make an early night of it because Fakhrey will come for me at 8:30 tomorrow morning and drive me to Petra.  Provided we meet no trucks on-coming.

Madaba skyline (left to right):  belfry of Greek Orthodox Basilica of St. George,
minarets of Muslim King Hussein Mosque
& steeple of Roman Catholic Church of St. John the Baptist