Petra

Moses' Spring; Equestrian Annie; the Kazmeh; Many Colours; Bedouin camels

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The next morning dawned rainy and chill. When I ordered coffee, a melancholy waiter informed me, “Sorry, no more.”

My downcast face prompted him to add, “150 Koreans come and drink it all.”

I hadn’t so far seen 150 of anything in the entire kingdom of Jordan – except sheep – and felt disbelief contort my caffeine-deprived features.

“Worry not. We will find,” and the waiter scurried away to be replaced almost instantly by Nazeeh.

“Today we go to Petra,” he announced, rubbing his hands together.

We drove first to Moses’ Spring. This marks the spot where the Israelites found themselves dying for lack of water following their flight through the Sinai desert. Carrying those stones covered in the Ten Commandments was thirsty work. God told Aaron to strike a rock with his rod of office. He did so. Water gushed forth – and continues gushing to this day.

Nazeeh approved of my reverence towards history. “It looked better in the past,” he said. “About 15 years ago, the government built this roof” – he gestured upwards at the ceiling, constructed like the dome of a mosque – “and this pool” – he indicated the rather grotty and stagnant receptacle into which the water trickled. “But still special place.”

I agreed and we carried on.

“Do you know why we say ‘Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan’?” Nazeeh asked suddenly, peering through the windshield at the drizzle and mist.

“No.”

“Because our kings are famous for going on the Haj. Haj, Hashemite. Travel to Mecca, you understand?”

Before I could respond, we pulled into a vast empty parking lot.

“Here you have different guide,” said Nazeeh. “I am not allowed to walk with you into Petra but I know this man. He is very good. Respectful. You ask him many questions and he tell you answer. Do not forget to give him tip. I think 10 Jordanian dollars fair. Okay?”

“Okay!”

“And here is snick.” He thrust a carton of apple juice and three Swiss rolls into my stiff fingers, then handed me over to the new guide.

The next thing I knew, the guide said, “I help you up,” and there I was seated on a horse, face on into frigid wind and stinging rain, trotting towards an apparently impenetrable rock wall rising from the gloom several hundred yards distant.

“At least I don’t have to walk,” I thought, the jacket and scarf I’d bought in Dubai providing little protection against the onslaught. “Maybe the cold will be easier to bear on horseback.”

I spotted an opening in the cliff and looked forward to getting out of the wind.

“I help you get down,” said the guide pulling me from the horse just as I started to feel comfortable. There are some things about foreign countries I’ll never figure out.

We entered the winding 1500-metre Siq, a narrow gorge that provides the only entrance to the fabled rose-red city of Petra. It winds between rock walls up to 200 metres high.

The Siq was first discovered by Edomite farmers who ventured down to carve tombs from the sandstone. Later, when the Nabataeans realised the Siq was the unique means of ingress, they founded a city, a stronghold to keep them safe from their enemies. Unfortunately, there was no water – no springs – wells were dug in vain – so the place couldn’t withstand a siege.

The guide pointed out the runnels the Romans carved into the stone on either side of the narrow defile. Once they’d figured out how to pipe water from Moses’ Spring, Petra became perfectly secure and many years went by before some nimble villains managed to block the spring and mount a successful siege.

The cold receded as we walked between the massive walls, swirling with colour and twisted into shapes that resembled fish and elephants. Beneath my feet, the stone was rutted by the wheels of Roman chariots. Carvings of camels laden with goods and surrounded by groups of people reminded me Petra was a major stop on the Silk Road, part of the King’s Highway and, in antiquity, the biggest place between Damascus and the Saudi desert.

Suddenly I heard a strange sound – the clip clop of horse’s hooves and the dull spinning of wheels. I couldn’t believe my ears. The guide said nothing as we both looked expectantly ahead. Moments later a horse-drawn, Roman-style chariot came briskly into view, driven by a man standing up to better control the reins. Horse and driver sped by us like a dream.

I experienced the weird sensation of being transported back in time and felt almost dizzy with it. A thousand years – two thousand years – could have been whisked away by the wind. I could be standing in any of the last two hundred centuries. Not a single sign of the 21st century intruded.

“Gypsy man,” said the guide and walked on.

Just when I thought we’d wander the Siq forever, we rounded a final curve and the famous Kazmeh, or Treasury, rose before me. Its name comes from the Bedouin belief that Pharaoh hid his treasure here while pursuing the Israelites from Egypt. I guess it was slowing him down.

The Treasury wasn’t as red as I’d expected but the weather was so grey and dull it leached the colour from everything. The place was swarming with Bedouins, donkeys, camels, horses and ragged children selling rocks and silver jewellery.

With a few notable exceptions, the area was more of a ruin that I’d expected, too, more like a Bedouin camp than the noble remnants of an ancient city. The guide pointed out that Petra covered 25 square miles and that the Bedouins, for a fee, let visitors ride their donkeys or camels to the more distant sites. Not having realised the place was so large, I had only a few hours in which to explore.

I marvelled at a Cave of Many Colours and a theatre, the only one in the world carved completely from stone. The Romans added arches and black walls.

By this time I was so cold I was shaking, with blue lips and chattering teeth. My body had gotten used to much hotter climes and was registering a distinct protest.

The guide noticed my distress.

“You need warm,” he said. “Maybe Bedouins help.”

With my Pashmina scarf wound around my neck and head so as to leave only a slit for my eyes, I followed him, head down, watching only his feet, my brain empty of anything but the all-encompassing cold.

“You sit here,” the guide said at last.

I shook off my scarf and did a classic double take as I gratefully sank onto an old piece of carpet placed in front of a blazing campfire. A group of men sat around it. Their dark eyes stared at me from weathered faces. Most of them remained opaque, obsidian, shuttered windows on a world I’d never know. A few lit with the sparkle of slow smiles.

Someone handed me a tin cup full of steaming tea. It was amber, a little cloudy, and a pungent scent rose with the steam.

Heaven became a seat on the ground in front of a leaping fire surrounded by Bedouins, permeated with the strong smell of camel and donkey, jingling to the sound of bells and harness.

A very large man, the leader perhaps, came and sat down next to me, giving me a sidelong glance as he lit a long thin pipe.

We sat in silence. He looked straight ahead and I sipped my tea, which turned out to be delicious and deliciously warming. Then the man reached into his robes and pulled out a handful of coins.

“Very old,” he said, holding out his palm covered in what, indeed, looked like very old coins, gold and silver, glinting in the light from the fire and ragged at the edges, imperfectly stamped circles.
“Roman, Greek, Nabataean,” he went on, moving them around so I could admire the imprinted Caesars and other kingly heads. “I find in – you say fast flood?”

“Flash flood,” I supplied, ever the conscientious language instructor.

“Yes. Flash flood. Very valuable. For you, only 200 American dollars. Worth much more. Usually I sell for one thousand American dollars, but no visitors now. Only you. So I make special price.”

I nearly laughed out loud. To begin with, I had no American dollars and certainly not 200 of them. Even if I did – and wanted coins – I had a vague idea that most countries had laws banning the export of antiquities. And the thought did cross my mind that these might be clever reproductions.

“Sorry,” I said. “I am a Canadian and a teacher. I have very little money. And I don’t collect coins.”

The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of black and broken teeth. “That’s okay. You buy my coins and when you go home you sell for many thousand dollars. You help me, I help you.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He smoked for a while. No one spoke and the wind whistled through the rocks.

“One hundred American dollars,” the man said finally. “Bad for me but very good for you.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I replied, starting to feel uncomfortable. My guide stood in the background, ignoring me.

A few more minutes passed. The Bedouin man sighed and cleared his throat with a coarse liquid bubbling of phlegm.

“Twenty-five dollars,” he said. “Best offer. I get almost nothing and you go home, become rich in your country.”

Inspiration filled me, a result of the blessed warmth. I gave him a huge smile. “But this is terrible,” I said. “Look at these coins.” I brushed my fingers over them where they still lay in his outstretched palm. “So beautiful. So old. You must not sell them for $25 – that would be a crime. You wait for a few days. Soon a rich American will come. He will pay $200 – maybe even $500 – and be happy. You, too, will be happy. And the American will love the coins, which is good because these coins were made to be loved. You do not want to sell them for a song to a silly Canadian woman who does not understand their importance.”

The old man grinned and returned the coins to the depths of his robe. I looked up and saw that his companions were also grinning, as was my guide.

“Bring this woman more tea,” the man ordered. And it was brought.

A little later, the guide delivered me back to the parking lot where Nazeeh was anxiously pacing in the drizzle.

You okay?” he demanded. “You gone very long.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just cold. The guide helped me get some tea from the Bedouins.”

Nazeeh looked as appalled as if I’d told him I engaged in exotic dance, semi-clothed, and then sold myself to the lowest Bedouin bidder.

“Get in car,” he said, scowling at the guide. “We go to lunch now. And I explain you Jordan.”

We squealed away, tires spitting gravel at the forlorn guide left standing in the rain.