Wednesday 22 July 2009
A deadly regime
Things are going from bad to worse in the staff canteen. Monday, the place was deathly quiet. This may be due to the increase in alleged or suspected cases of pig flu that currently prevail or it might simply be that word has spread concerning the quality of the food which has sunk to an all time low. Being Monday, brown soup was on offer; a non-starter that I couldn't face and thus made the mistake of opting for the inedible escalope of swine with raw potatoes and a sauce. The person in front of me asked what sort of sauce it was. Came the answer, 'white sauce'. I kid you not. Things looked more promising on Tuesday: horsasoupa soup. I'd never heard of horsasoupa soup and had no idea what colour it might be but I liked the way the words tripped of the tongue. It's Greek apparently. However, when the lid was removed from the tureen and the contents revealed I back-tracked hastily....no way was that going to trip off my tongue. I settled for a cup of coffee from the Costa-packet franchise. Which brings us to today and a surprising amount of activity in the food emporium. The soup had a long name which started with Manhattan. I'd lost the will to live before I'd even reached the end of its title and decided that the safest bet would be a jacket potato and salad for which the person on the till attempted to charge me at least twice the going rate. I declined his suggestion and in the confusion the till became jammed. I then learned something very interesting: probably because of the situation with the till or maybe because he too couldn't be bothered, it is apparently possible to negotiate a price for the food based on what you think it's worth. I find this extremely innovative and may return. On the other hand....
Thursday 16 July 2009
Soup for the soul
I'm on a diet this week. When people ask me why I'm not doing a PhD I say, quite truthfully, that it would take forever and I can't commit myself to longer than two years ahead with anything. As I age, even two years seems like an awfully long time to maintain anything with a degree of interest. With diets, a week is generally about the most I can stick to. I used to tell folk that I was on a post-natal regime but, unlike me, that's wearing a bit thin as the last time I gave birth to anyone was over twenty years ago.
A lot of soup from the staff canteen has been involved in this current attempt which was initated following a review of the latest holiday snaps. (If only that which has replaced the area where I once had a waist could, like a photograph, be nothing more than a moment in time). Monday it was green soup. Tuesday it was white. On Wednesday I was looking forward with some anticipation to red soup but the green made a re-appearance. Today, I was pleasantly surprised by orange broth. The colour of the soup is extremely important as there is little else to either identify it by or distinguish it from the day before or the day after in this place. I have resisted the accompanying roll and have even managed to walk directly to the till without even a backward glance at the puddings. Lunch takes a maximum of ten minutes eaten, if possible, alone in order that I don't have to watch my super-sized colleagues knocking back plateful's of curry or fish and chips.
Last night I had half a roasted butternut squash with a glass of water for supper and went to bed hungry. This morning, I was in the swimming pool at twenty to seven; the only one there at such an ungodly hour. Up and down, up and down with repetitive monotony and only the delights of coffee and three cardboard breakfast biscuits to look forward to. And what difference is it making? Absolutely none. As a child of mine helpfully remarked, 'you're only like that because you're old'. I have a suspicion that tonight's liquid intake might have one or two grapes in it.
A lot of soup from the staff canteen has been involved in this current attempt which was initated following a review of the latest holiday snaps. (If only that which has replaced the area where I once had a waist could, like a photograph, be nothing more than a moment in time). Monday it was green soup. Tuesday it was white. On Wednesday I was looking forward with some anticipation to red soup but the green made a re-appearance. Today, I was pleasantly surprised by orange broth. The colour of the soup is extremely important as there is little else to either identify it by or distinguish it from the day before or the day after in this place. I have resisted the accompanying roll and have even managed to walk directly to the till without even a backward glance at the puddings. Lunch takes a maximum of ten minutes eaten, if possible, alone in order that I don't have to watch my super-sized colleagues knocking back plateful's of curry or fish and chips.
Last night I had half a roasted butternut squash with a glass of water for supper and went to bed hungry. This morning, I was in the swimming pool at twenty to seven; the only one there at such an ungodly hour. Up and down, up and down with repetitive monotony and only the delights of coffee and three cardboard breakfast biscuits to look forward to. And what difference is it making? Absolutely none. As a child of mine helpfully remarked, 'you're only like that because you're old'. I have a suspicion that tonight's liquid intake might have one or two grapes in it.
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Metamorphosis in the real world
Once upon a time there was little boy who arrived rather late in the day. His sisters, although considerably older, were pleased to see him. His grandparents, who, arguably, were not initially impressed to hear of his impending presence, fell instantly in love with him. The little boy was a delightful character and everyone was content to let their worlds revolve around him. As he grew, he worked hard at school, had a penchant for hats, was never seen without one and developed a healthy appetite for exotic foods. He was comfortable in the presence of adults and had lots of friends amongst his peers. In fact, he was as perfect a child as could ever be wanted.
One day, however, a terrible thing happened. When he was thirteen years old, the charming little boy went quietly to bed one night as usual and woke up the next morning having turned into a monster. The monster continued to be pleasant and polite towards his grandparents and other adults which was a blessing. His mother, however, turned into an object of hatred and derision who had lost the ability to do anything right. No matter how hard she looked for the little boy, he had completely disappeared whilst the monster grew bigger, ganglier and uglier. All she could do was try to keep the monster fed and provided with clean clothes and hope that her little boy would return one day.
Many long years passed, not without incident, until one day the mother noticed signs of the monster changing again. Sporadically, he was beginning to look and act a lot better until, at last, she realised he had grown into a very personable young man. The other monsters with whom he had been associating had also become fully formed and seemed to be successfully emerging from the darkness. There were odd relapses but, generally, the mother felt happy and even proud to be in the company of this new person.
Before long, it was time for the young man to leave and seek higher education. When he left, the mother was bereft: it seemed that such an expanse of time had been spent caring for him and his long gone sisters that she had forgotten what else she could do. She spent a lot of time wondering and wandering. The sisters were fine and did what women do but the mother fretted about the young man. When he came home for Christmas they had a lovely time even though he was rightly full of his new life. She welcomed into her home a small female of the species who seemed to have become attached at the hip to the young man and looked forward to the long summer vacation.
When the young man returned after the first year something had happened to him again. In fact, it wasn't him at all: the monster was back! Well, that wasn't in the book she thought.
One day, however, a terrible thing happened. When he was thirteen years old, the charming little boy went quietly to bed one night as usual and woke up the next morning having turned into a monster. The monster continued to be pleasant and polite towards his grandparents and other adults which was a blessing. His mother, however, turned into an object of hatred and derision who had lost the ability to do anything right. No matter how hard she looked for the little boy, he had completely disappeared whilst the monster grew bigger, ganglier and uglier. All she could do was try to keep the monster fed and provided with clean clothes and hope that her little boy would return one day.
Many long years passed, not without incident, until one day the mother noticed signs of the monster changing again. Sporadically, he was beginning to look and act a lot better until, at last, she realised he had grown into a very personable young man. The other monsters with whom he had been associating had also become fully formed and seemed to be successfully emerging from the darkness. There were odd relapses but, generally, the mother felt happy and even proud to be in the company of this new person.
Before long, it was time for the young man to leave and seek higher education. When he left, the mother was bereft: it seemed that such an expanse of time had been spent caring for him and his long gone sisters that she had forgotten what else she could do. She spent a lot of time wondering and wandering. The sisters were fine and did what women do but the mother fretted about the young man. When he came home for Christmas they had a lovely time even though he was rightly full of his new life. She welcomed into her home a small female of the species who seemed to have become attached at the hip to the young man and looked forward to the long summer vacation.
When the young man returned after the first year something had happened to him again. In fact, it wasn't him at all: the monster was back! Well, that wasn't in the book she thought.
A few days in another world
He who makes light of other men will be killed by a turnip
I am on the plane to Jordan reading proverbs of the country in my guide book.
Their meanings have been lost in translation as is the reason for choosing to travel to the Middle East as a single woman. I am fearful. My daughter recently abandoned me in a scene from Life of Brian outside terminal three at Heathrow. If the question had been asked, I would have stayed in the car with the broken seat and returned with her to the sanctuary of Dorset. No-one asked. Royal Jordanian Airways sounds as if it will be plush but it doesn’t live up to its name. Despite the aeroplane being unbearably hot, a stewardess appears with red blankets. I take one without knowing why….it’s free; it’s foreign; it might be a souvenir. It gets tucked down the side of the seat to be forever forgotten and I am engaged in conversation by Simon, a hairdresser with an elite clientele. In response to an inconsequential query, he assures me that ‘Jordan is NOT a third world country’! I am not minded to watch the film which is Bride Wars.
I predict a riot
Fifteen of us, as yet an unknown cohort, are gathered together at the Citadel over-looking Amman. We are accompanied by our Jordanian guide, Yamaan, who has taken the mantle of most knowledgeable person in the universe away from Stephen Fry. Already, it’s obvious that Yamaan knows everything there is worth knowing about his country and is keen to ensure that we leave with a different perspective. Before arriving at our current destination, we have learned that Amman is home to the greatest number of Palestinian refugee camps in the world and none of them are surrounded by fences. Palestinian refugees can, without bureaucratic problems, assume Jordanian nationality; largely, they don’t because otherwise they won’t be able to lay claim to a homeland. ‘On your right is the most secure building in Jordan. No photographs please. What do you think it is?’ A number of seemingly sensible answers are forwarded to the first of the test questions. All are wrong and like any general knowledge quiz, the answer is, of course, obvious once you know it: it’s the American embassy. Yamaan tells us why mosques and churches point in the apposite direction and asks why synagogues are centred towards Jerusalem. Comes the tentative answer from the woman who is accompanying the Bill Oddie look-alike, ‘because it’s the promised land?’ ‘Oh my God’ shouts Yamaan. ‘No-body promised anybody anything!’ We are uniformly silenced.
Wrong-footed by the heat and noticing a singularly large bird flying overhead which I fear may be a vulture, I mistakenly break into his exposition on the worthlessness of spending money on the largest flag in the world to ask what sort of bird this might be. ‘Are you a twitcher?’ he demands. Despite my protestations to the contrary, I am doomed for the rest of the trip to purvey ornithological knowledge that I do not possess. We are much in awe of this man and quietly follow him into the archaeological museum to see the few remnants of the Dead Sea Scrolls that are not housed in occupied Palestine and the beautiful two-headed statues which are the oldest in the world. Having not yet fully identified all of my compatriots, I make the second mistake of the morning by asking a complete stranger if he will lend me a dinar for the toilet. Presumably from surprise, he hands me a note. It is only later in the evening when no-one wants repaying that I realise my error.
Onto a yomp around Jerash, city of a thousand pillars, where we hear that which we believe to be our first call to prayer. It’s not: its three ex-Jordanian soldiers trying to make a few dinars by demonstrating the acoustics of the old Roman theatre with a set of bagpipes and drums. Andrea and I opt out of a high level climb to yet more columns to share the first of many cigarettes and swap information, mostly concerning age and ongoing post-menopausal symptoms. I wonder how many other woman over the years have sat in this place of historical significance exchanging similar experiences. Yamaan tells us that we will not be able to visit the amphitheatre as promised in the itinerary because it has been taken over for the day by the queen. The royal court has the power to do whatever it likes with impunity. Instead of the amphitheatre, we are promised the Royal Automobile Museum but already the mutterings of dissent are to be heard amongst our quickly bonding group. Most of us are anxious to return to the hotel for a swim but Bill Oddie and his wife want to see the cars so we must go. On arrival, it is shut: the Royal Court has struck again. A delegation of Chinese officials are due but on the way back through Amman the Royal Court drivers have managed to crash all seven limousines conveying the visitors, thereby causing gridlock in the city. We all clap and cheer as we pass by the carnage.
Among walnuts only the empty one speaks
We stop to look around the crusader castle at Kerak which we are told is not quite up to the standard of the one in Syria. Nonetheless, there is considerably more of it remaining than the more recent pile of stones which comprises Corfe Castle and there are a diverse range of nationalities present. Two young Lebanese backpackers have cheekily attached themselves to our group to take advantage of Yamaan’s wealth of historical and archaeological knowledge. Judging by the looks that are exchanged, some of us are feeling possessive about our leader and when the strangers follow us to the next room and subsequently outside the mutterings recommence. The Lebanese make their move and totally subsume Yamaan with their questions. As we trudge back downhill, we are forgotten and leaderless as the three new friends stride purposefully ahead. In a collective sulk we decide to hide behind a castle wall where we wait, stifling giggles, until Yamaan, phone in hand, re-appears anxiously around the corner whereupon we all jump out. He is momentarily silenced by this unexpected British behaviour which was not, presumably, part of the good guides’ instruction course on which he achieved first place. Things are not improved by the ladies’ reaction to the available technical facilities and we are forced to wait for those who have demanded the restaurant re-opens, unwilling to try the largely unacceptable ‘gents’.
Guests and fish stink after three days
I went to Jordan because, as long as I can remember, I have wanted to visit Petra. I am, therefore, dumbfounded by Mount Nebo. In fact, I am literally moved to tears; although this will not be the only display of such emotion on this journey. Here is the grave of Moses whose punishment was to look out over the ‘promised’ land but never to attain it. The view is breath-taking: there is Jerusalem; there is Jericho; there is the Dead Sea and the River Jordan; here is the history of the world and the beginning of three thousand years of conflict set forth.
PETRA WROTE BIG
Yamaan puts us into a crocodile of pairs. Each person must grasp their partner’s hand, placing their free hands on the shoulders of the people in front and everyone must keep their eyes shut. In this way, like a visually impaired chain gang, we shuffle forward around the last bend in the two kilometer long gorge that leads into Petra. Yamaan tells us to open our eyes and as we look up there is a collective sigh as we catch our first Indiana Jones-like glimpse of the rose coloured Treasury. Nothing can prepare a person for this sight; even our beloved guide who has been here countless times continues to be thrilled.
Judging by the number of Johnny Depp doppelgangers, Pirates of the Caribbean has clearly been a big hit in Petra. Everywhere we look there are swarthy young Bedouin replete with kohl around their eyes, gold earrings and jet black flowing locks. None of them have received any formal education and all of them speak at least five languages proficiently enough to ensure the understandable permanent migration of several western women.
The Jordanian government, anxious to exploit this previously unknown wonder of the world, has, in the last twenty years built a new village for the descendants of those who have lived in Petra since time immemorial. In exchange for leaving the caves they get free housing, free utilities, pay no taxes and most importantly of all maintain exclusive rights to trade on the site. This means that currently there is no commercialization: no Macdonalds, no Burger King, in fact, nothing. All the postcards look as if they’ve been there since the dawning of Petra. On a bad day, toddlers will attempt to sell you stones. If you look reasonably affluent, you can buy Nabotean coins. Andrea and I are having yet another cigarette whilst the others are examining one more high-placed tomb. We are surrounded by a selection of beautiful female children who take all of our sweets, indifferent to our discussion of night sweats. Just you wait.
The stunningly attractive man who is leading us on the donkeys tells us he was born in that cave up there. We are greatly impressed. We learn that, despite the new village, twenty-five families still live on the site. It is accepted that only a quarter of Petra has been excavated and the donkey leader tells us that he knows many secret places. Later on the bus, Yamaan will ask whether we have been told by anyone that they were born in the cave. We are ready for such cynicism: ‘of course’ we reply. ‘Didn’t you know it was the Nabotean maternity hospital?’ We are as sharp as marbles. And we want to believe everything.
And once more by candle-light
I have been severely attacked by the air-conditioning. Ears, throat and nose are hostile. At home, I would submit but the call of Petra by candle-light beckons and ‘we must progress’. I know how long the trek is so I attach myself to anyone who isn’t walking quickly enough to escape me. I am fortunate in that my companions are sympathetic and we traverse the siq whose way has been lit by candles placed in brown paper bags. Eventually, we reach the Treasury and are instructed to sit quietly on the mats that have been placed on the ground for us. The mats smell of the donkeys and horses that use them in the day but it doesn’t matter. About two hundred people are sat in a silent world that is lit only by hundreds of candles and nothing matters. Small cups of sweet black tea are brought round and a Bedouin appears from the darkness to sing a very long song, possibly about his goat. Next, comes another playing haunting music on strange pipes and finally we are given an impassioned speech about Petra which ends with a reminder to leave the tea-cups behind. Simply stunning.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better
We are on the bus to Wadi Rum and it’s quiz time again. ‘Why is there no passenger railway line in Jordan?’ Yamaan asks casually. I had an earlier suspicion that today might be the day when he takes a step too far in the eyes of some of those on board. ‘Because your Lawrence blew it up!’ Then follows an extremely interesting lecture on the British in Jordan and T.E’s role as a spy as we head into the red depths of Lawrence country. And Lawrence country it is. Never mind if he double-crossed one or two folk; the Bedouin loved him and they’re still loving him: here are the seven pillars carved into the sandstone (even though there’s only five of them); here is Lawrence’s spring; here is Lawrence’s hill and here is a car-park jammed with four-wheel drive Japanese camels some of which are to take us into the unknown.
The desert in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ was an endless expanse of grit-coloured sand. This is because it was largely filmed in Morocco and Spain. The sands of Wadi Rum are comprised of ever-changing tones of deep red and orange between sandstone mountains and strangely shaped outcrops. Unexpectedly, I find it to be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen and yet again my eyes are full of suppressed emotion. Bedouin tents are dotted here and there; camels and herds of long-haired goats wander contentedly. We disembark the trucks to climb between the walls of a gorge to view centuries’ old rock paintings displaying animals and figures, one of whom is pictured giving birth.
Whilst we are over-awed by pre-history, Bill Oddie, who has succumbed to the heat, is hiding behind a rock down below enjoying yet another furtive cigarette that he has blagged from Andrea. Mrs. Oddie, an ex-nicotine addict who has managed the climb with the aid of a stick, is dismissive: ‘He thinks I don’t know he smokes. Why else would anyone get through so much toothpaste and mouthwash?’
Paradise attained
We board our coach for the final journey hundreds of kilometers along the Desert Highway to the Dead Sea. This is our longest trip. During the week, our driver, Ahmed, has transported us through some of the most amazing landscapes contrasting lush green countryside with the heights and depths of Jordan’s startling grand canyon. Today, he takes the straightest route and the way is long and tedious. Hour after hour there is little to look at. It occurs to me that this is what I had expected most of Jordan to be like, not the beautiful country which we have been privileged to share.
The lobby of the Kempinski Ishtar hotel defies description in size and grandeur. Chauffer-driven limousines arrive and immaculately dressed porters in pristine robes glide silently to collect the luggage of the uber-handsome men and beautiful jewel-bedecked women who emerge from within. An exquisite young Thai girl stands ready with a tray of mango juice and sparkling wine. Two perfectly attired and faultlessly coiffured Jordanian men are waiting to hand us room keys and hotel maps; and they do not allow a flicker of emotion to cross their charming faces as into this spotless environment come the raggle-taggle gypsies oh. Only six days ago we were a disparate and eclectic group of individuals with little in common. Now as close-knit nomads, all sport orange shoes and trouser bottoms disguised by the sands of Wadi Rum. The detritus of a five hour coach journey through the desert clings to us uniformly. We are united in our collective need for a bath. And not a solitary eyelid is batted by these well-heeled ambassadors as they politely inform us that we have all been upgraded to luxury suites with views overlooking the Dead Sea.
Tomorrow, I will see the blackest people that I have ever come across. I didn’t know people had skins that black. Whilst I am wondering which country they originate from I will see another couple of a similar hue. Only then will I realise that they are coated in skin-purifying Dead Sea mud and be glad that I didn’t share my observations with anyone else. I will choose which of the twelve swimming pools I want to sit by whilst men pass by to offer slices of cucumber for my eyes and flannels that have been frozen in scented oil. Christine and I will be transported by buggy to have a hot stone massage and I will watch the sun set over the Dead Sea with my new friends as we wait for the lights of Jerusalem to appear on the top of the hill.
Paddling with the Patels
The River Jordan runs deep and wide. Well, it might have when Michael was rowing his boat ashore but these days it’s not much more than a trickle. Whilst we in the west might see conflict in the Middle East being centred on the acquisition of oil, those who live there maintain water as a priority. Unsure of the strategic importance of the Golan Heights? Search for the source of the Jordan River. On the last and shortest of our trips Yamaan asks a final general knowledge question: ‘Who were the Essenes?’ Sitting quietly at the front, I reply without hesitation ‘the people who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls’. Momentarily, there is silence as everyone looks on in amazement until Yamaan shouts ‘Alison, you’re a star!’ In the last chance saloon only I knew the right answer.
At 8.30 in the morning it is already 51C down at the water’s edge of the site that is now officially regarded as the venue of Christ’s baptism. For the first time during the holiday we are accompanied by an armed soldier who, I presume, is there to ensure that we don’t paddle five or six feet over to the Israeli side. I’m surprised there’s no-one on the opposite bank watching us. ‘You can be sure they are’ says Yamaan. The water is extremely murky and uninviting but I am persuaded that I would later regret having come this far and not going in; so I cling to Hari and Bella who, in turn, are clinging to a wooden stake. Amanda is crying: she is moved to be in this place as most of us, in turn, have been affected elsewhere in this wonderful country.
Alison Green
July 2009 Click here to see the beautiful Wadi Rum
I am on the plane to Jordan reading proverbs of the country in my guide book.
Their meanings have been lost in translation as is the reason for choosing to travel to the Middle East as a single woman. I am fearful. My daughter recently abandoned me in a scene from Life of Brian outside terminal three at Heathrow. If the question had been asked, I would have stayed in the car with the broken seat and returned with her to the sanctuary of Dorset. No-one asked. Royal Jordanian Airways sounds as if it will be plush but it doesn’t live up to its name. Despite the aeroplane being unbearably hot, a stewardess appears with red blankets. I take one without knowing why….it’s free; it’s foreign; it might be a souvenir. It gets tucked down the side of the seat to be forever forgotten and I am engaged in conversation by Simon, a hairdresser with an elite clientele. In response to an inconsequential query, he assures me that ‘Jordan is NOT a third world country’! I am not minded to watch the film which is Bride Wars.
I predict a riot
Fifteen of us, as yet an unknown cohort, are gathered together at the Citadel over-looking Amman. We are accompanied by our Jordanian guide, Yamaan, who has taken the mantle of most knowledgeable person in the universe away from Stephen Fry. Already, it’s obvious that Yamaan knows everything there is worth knowing about his country and is keen to ensure that we leave with a different perspective. Before arriving at our current destination, we have learned that Amman is home to the greatest number of Palestinian refugee camps in the world and none of them are surrounded by fences. Palestinian refugees can, without bureaucratic problems, assume Jordanian nationality; largely, they don’t because otherwise they won’t be able to lay claim to a homeland. ‘On your right is the most secure building in Jordan. No photographs please. What do you think it is?’ A number of seemingly sensible answers are forwarded to the first of the test questions. All are wrong and like any general knowledge quiz, the answer is, of course, obvious once you know it: it’s the American embassy. Yamaan tells us why mosques and churches point in the apposite direction and asks why synagogues are centred towards Jerusalem. Comes the tentative answer from the woman who is accompanying the Bill Oddie look-alike, ‘because it’s the promised land?’ ‘Oh my God’ shouts Yamaan. ‘No-body promised anybody anything!’ We are uniformly silenced.
Wrong-footed by the heat and noticing a singularly large bird flying overhead which I fear may be a vulture, I mistakenly break into his exposition on the worthlessness of spending money on the largest flag in the world to ask what sort of bird this might be. ‘Are you a twitcher?’ he demands. Despite my protestations to the contrary, I am doomed for the rest of the trip to purvey ornithological knowledge that I do not possess. We are much in awe of this man and quietly follow him into the archaeological museum to see the few remnants of the Dead Sea Scrolls that are not housed in occupied Palestine and the beautiful two-headed statues which are the oldest in the world. Having not yet fully identified all of my compatriots, I make the second mistake of the morning by asking a complete stranger if he will lend me a dinar for the toilet. Presumably from surprise, he hands me a note. It is only later in the evening when no-one wants repaying that I realise my error.
Onto a yomp around Jerash, city of a thousand pillars, where we hear that which we believe to be our first call to prayer. It’s not: its three ex-Jordanian soldiers trying to make a few dinars by demonstrating the acoustics of the old Roman theatre with a set of bagpipes and drums. Andrea and I opt out of a high level climb to yet more columns to share the first of many cigarettes and swap information, mostly concerning age and ongoing post-menopausal symptoms. I wonder how many other woman over the years have sat in this place of historical significance exchanging similar experiences. Yamaan tells us that we will not be able to visit the amphitheatre as promised in the itinerary because it has been taken over for the day by the queen. The royal court has the power to do whatever it likes with impunity. Instead of the amphitheatre, we are promised the Royal Automobile Museum but already the mutterings of dissent are to be heard amongst our quickly bonding group. Most of us are anxious to return to the hotel for a swim but Bill Oddie and his wife want to see the cars so we must go. On arrival, it is shut: the Royal Court has struck again. A delegation of Chinese officials are due but on the way back through Amman the Royal Court drivers have managed to crash all seven limousines conveying the visitors, thereby causing gridlock in the city. We all clap and cheer as we pass by the carnage.
Among walnuts only the empty one speaks
We stop to look around the crusader castle at Kerak which we are told is not quite up to the standard of the one in Syria. Nonetheless, there is considerably more of it remaining than the more recent pile of stones which comprises Corfe Castle and there are a diverse range of nationalities present. Two young Lebanese backpackers have cheekily attached themselves to our group to take advantage of Yamaan’s wealth of historical and archaeological knowledge. Judging by the looks that are exchanged, some of us are feeling possessive about our leader and when the strangers follow us to the next room and subsequently outside the mutterings recommence. The Lebanese make their move and totally subsume Yamaan with their questions. As we trudge back downhill, we are forgotten and leaderless as the three new friends stride purposefully ahead. In a collective sulk we decide to hide behind a castle wall where we wait, stifling giggles, until Yamaan, phone in hand, re-appears anxiously around the corner whereupon we all jump out. He is momentarily silenced by this unexpected British behaviour which was not, presumably, part of the good guides’ instruction course on which he achieved first place. Things are not improved by the ladies’ reaction to the available technical facilities and we are forced to wait for those who have demanded the restaurant re-opens, unwilling to try the largely unacceptable ‘gents’.
Guests and fish stink after three days
I went to Jordan because, as long as I can remember, I have wanted to visit Petra. I am, therefore, dumbfounded by Mount Nebo. In fact, I am literally moved to tears; although this will not be the only display of such emotion on this journey. Here is the grave of Moses whose punishment was to look out over the ‘promised’ land but never to attain it. The view is breath-taking: there is Jerusalem; there is Jericho; there is the Dead Sea and the River Jordan; here is the history of the world and the beginning of three thousand years of conflict set forth.
PETRA WROTE BIG
Yamaan puts us into a crocodile of pairs. Each person must grasp their partner’s hand, placing their free hands on the shoulders of the people in front and everyone must keep their eyes shut. In this way, like a visually impaired chain gang, we shuffle forward around the last bend in the two kilometer long gorge that leads into Petra. Yamaan tells us to open our eyes and as we look up there is a collective sigh as we catch our first Indiana Jones-like glimpse of the rose coloured Treasury. Nothing can prepare a person for this sight; even our beloved guide who has been here countless times continues to be thrilled.
Judging by the number of Johnny Depp doppelgangers, Pirates of the Caribbean has clearly been a big hit in Petra. Everywhere we look there are swarthy young Bedouin replete with kohl around their eyes, gold earrings and jet black flowing locks. None of them have received any formal education and all of them speak at least five languages proficiently enough to ensure the understandable permanent migration of several western women.
The Jordanian government, anxious to exploit this previously unknown wonder of the world, has, in the last twenty years built a new village for the descendants of those who have lived in Petra since time immemorial. In exchange for leaving the caves they get free housing, free utilities, pay no taxes and most importantly of all maintain exclusive rights to trade on the site. This means that currently there is no commercialization: no Macdonalds, no Burger King, in fact, nothing. All the postcards look as if they’ve been there since the dawning of Petra. On a bad day, toddlers will attempt to sell you stones. If you look reasonably affluent, you can buy Nabotean coins. Andrea and I are having yet another cigarette whilst the others are examining one more high-placed tomb. We are surrounded by a selection of beautiful female children who take all of our sweets, indifferent to our discussion of night sweats. Just you wait.
The stunningly attractive man who is leading us on the donkeys tells us he was born in that cave up there. We are greatly impressed. We learn that, despite the new village, twenty-five families still live on the site. It is accepted that only a quarter of Petra has been excavated and the donkey leader tells us that he knows many secret places. Later on the bus, Yamaan will ask whether we have been told by anyone that they were born in the cave. We are ready for such cynicism: ‘of course’ we reply. ‘Didn’t you know it was the Nabotean maternity hospital?’ We are as sharp as marbles. And we want to believe everything.
And once more by candle-light
I have been severely attacked by the air-conditioning. Ears, throat and nose are hostile. At home, I would submit but the call of Petra by candle-light beckons and ‘we must progress’. I know how long the trek is so I attach myself to anyone who isn’t walking quickly enough to escape me. I am fortunate in that my companions are sympathetic and we traverse the siq whose way has been lit by candles placed in brown paper bags. Eventually, we reach the Treasury and are instructed to sit quietly on the mats that have been placed on the ground for us. The mats smell of the donkeys and horses that use them in the day but it doesn’t matter. About two hundred people are sat in a silent world that is lit only by hundreds of candles and nothing matters. Small cups of sweet black tea are brought round and a Bedouin appears from the darkness to sing a very long song, possibly about his goat. Next, comes another playing haunting music on strange pipes and finally we are given an impassioned speech about Petra which ends with a reminder to leave the tea-cups behind. Simply stunning.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better
We are on the bus to Wadi Rum and it’s quiz time again. ‘Why is there no passenger railway line in Jordan?’ Yamaan asks casually. I had an earlier suspicion that today might be the day when he takes a step too far in the eyes of some of those on board. ‘Because your Lawrence blew it up!’ Then follows an extremely interesting lecture on the British in Jordan and T.E’s role as a spy as we head into the red depths of Lawrence country. And Lawrence country it is. Never mind if he double-crossed one or two folk; the Bedouin loved him and they’re still loving him: here are the seven pillars carved into the sandstone (even though there’s only five of them); here is Lawrence’s spring; here is Lawrence’s hill and here is a car-park jammed with four-wheel drive Japanese camels some of which are to take us into the unknown.
The desert in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ was an endless expanse of grit-coloured sand. This is because it was largely filmed in Morocco and Spain. The sands of Wadi Rum are comprised of ever-changing tones of deep red and orange between sandstone mountains and strangely shaped outcrops. Unexpectedly, I find it to be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen and yet again my eyes are full of suppressed emotion. Bedouin tents are dotted here and there; camels and herds of long-haired goats wander contentedly. We disembark the trucks to climb between the walls of a gorge to view centuries’ old rock paintings displaying animals and figures, one of whom is pictured giving birth.
Whilst we are over-awed by pre-history, Bill Oddie, who has succumbed to the heat, is hiding behind a rock down below enjoying yet another furtive cigarette that he has blagged from Andrea. Mrs. Oddie, an ex-nicotine addict who has managed the climb with the aid of a stick, is dismissive: ‘He thinks I don’t know he smokes. Why else would anyone get through so much toothpaste and mouthwash?’
Paradise attained
We board our coach for the final journey hundreds of kilometers along the Desert Highway to the Dead Sea. This is our longest trip. During the week, our driver, Ahmed, has transported us through some of the most amazing landscapes contrasting lush green countryside with the heights and depths of Jordan’s startling grand canyon. Today, he takes the straightest route and the way is long and tedious. Hour after hour there is little to look at. It occurs to me that this is what I had expected most of Jordan to be like, not the beautiful country which we have been privileged to share.
The lobby of the Kempinski Ishtar hotel defies description in size and grandeur. Chauffer-driven limousines arrive and immaculately dressed porters in pristine robes glide silently to collect the luggage of the uber-handsome men and beautiful jewel-bedecked women who emerge from within. An exquisite young Thai girl stands ready with a tray of mango juice and sparkling wine. Two perfectly attired and faultlessly coiffured Jordanian men are waiting to hand us room keys and hotel maps; and they do not allow a flicker of emotion to cross their charming faces as into this spotless environment come the raggle-taggle gypsies oh. Only six days ago we were a disparate and eclectic group of individuals with little in common. Now as close-knit nomads, all sport orange shoes and trouser bottoms disguised by the sands of Wadi Rum. The detritus of a five hour coach journey through the desert clings to us uniformly. We are united in our collective need for a bath. And not a solitary eyelid is batted by these well-heeled ambassadors as they politely inform us that we have all been upgraded to luxury suites with views overlooking the Dead Sea.
Tomorrow, I will see the blackest people that I have ever come across. I didn’t know people had skins that black. Whilst I am wondering which country they originate from I will see another couple of a similar hue. Only then will I realise that they are coated in skin-purifying Dead Sea mud and be glad that I didn’t share my observations with anyone else. I will choose which of the twelve swimming pools I want to sit by whilst men pass by to offer slices of cucumber for my eyes and flannels that have been frozen in scented oil. Christine and I will be transported by buggy to have a hot stone massage and I will watch the sun set over the Dead Sea with my new friends as we wait for the lights of Jerusalem to appear on the top of the hill.
Paddling with the Patels
The River Jordan runs deep and wide. Well, it might have when Michael was rowing his boat ashore but these days it’s not much more than a trickle. Whilst we in the west might see conflict in the Middle East being centred on the acquisition of oil, those who live there maintain water as a priority. Unsure of the strategic importance of the Golan Heights? Search for the source of the Jordan River. On the last and shortest of our trips Yamaan asks a final general knowledge question: ‘Who were the Essenes?’ Sitting quietly at the front, I reply without hesitation ‘the people who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls’. Momentarily, there is silence as everyone looks on in amazement until Yamaan shouts ‘Alison, you’re a star!’ In the last chance saloon only I knew the right answer.
At 8.30 in the morning it is already 51C down at the water’s edge of the site that is now officially regarded as the venue of Christ’s baptism. For the first time during the holiday we are accompanied by an armed soldier who, I presume, is there to ensure that we don’t paddle five or six feet over to the Israeli side. I’m surprised there’s no-one on the opposite bank watching us. ‘You can be sure they are’ says Yamaan. The water is extremely murky and uninviting but I am persuaded that I would later regret having come this far and not going in; so I cling to Hari and Bella who, in turn, are clinging to a wooden stake. Amanda is crying: she is moved to be in this place as most of us, in turn, have been affected elsewhere in this wonderful country.
Alison Green
July 2009 Click here to see the beautiful Wadi Rum
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