Around highway km 257, the desert starts to gather relief and vegetation. The bus arrived at an old crusader castle called Al-Shubak (“the place” in Arabic). Pretty spectacular, a fortress about the size of two football field atop a steep, rocky hill. The Crusaders built a series of five or so impressive outposts to thwart Persian invasions from the east, toward Jerusalem; this particular castle offered a stunning view of the mountains and Jordan valley below, and from the way sounds of birds, donkeys carried up to it for miles, it was easy to understand the castle’s robust defensive position. It even had a tunnel some 130 feet deep into the rock that offered the Crusaders a secret back door escape. When boys make-believe impregnable fortresses, this is what they conjure—something so solid and so imposing that its keepers feel invincible. But the Crusaders proved very mortal, and Arabs took over the castle. Inscribed in the stone walls of Al-Shubak were Qur’anic verses from the 13th century, when soldiers from the Caliphate manned the fort. Centuries later, Bedouin inhabited the castle, the ancient ceilings still black with their campfire smoke. Now, the Jordanian Tourist Police guard the castle, and you can get a stuffed camel at the giftshop for 6JD.
Leaving the castle, we came on a field of snow (the highlands got several feet the week before) and of course picked a snowball fight with our professors and guide. Ali, Dr. Najeh, and Ahmad had a particularly epic one-on-one-on-one fight. Ali and Ahmad are employees for CIEE (my study abroad program), both young and really outgoing jokesters. Dr. Najeh is head of Arabic language instruction at the University of Jordan—a pretty big deal—and also really down-to-earth with his students. Anyway, it was funny seeing these proud Arab guys in keffiyas chunking snow at each other, like they’re ten. I guess it doesn’t matter what culture you’re from, when you see snow you just want to chuck it at someone. I bet the Crusaders even left their solid walls every now and then for a nice snow battle.
Later that day, our tour bus careened down the highway into Wadi Musa, the dry valley hiding Petra. (Note: Wadis aren’t like valleys in occidental mountains, but are rocky, rugged depressions often more mountainous than the surrounding highlands. Petra is sheltered in one these Wadis.) We turned a switchback, and boom, the unmistakable sandstone mountains and boulders glowing rust-red. First stop was “Little Petra”, a smaller suburb of the main city. 2500 years ago, camel caravans coming from Arabia, Syria, and Turkey stopped on here their journey into the Orient. We pulled up and of course saw a herd (?) of camels just hanging out in this big field—apparently that’s what the field was used for 2500 years ago too. A camel parking lot, smelled like crap. The coolest part of Little Petra was the 600,000 cubic meter cistern they carved into the rock to store rainwater, and the little water-filled pockets carved in the front of each dwelling—people cleaned their feet in them before they went inside.
Next morning I loaded up my camera gear like any self-respecting tourist, and set out early for Petra with my friend Collin. We walked through the small village of gift shops—counted four “Indiana Jones Shops”-- then through the turnstiles, and then set out on the dirt path to Petra. At first it’s a bit anticlimactic because it’s literally just an exposed, flat sandy trail; plus these locals kept riding by us on their donkeys asking if we needed a ride/knew any American girls. But then we came to this towering slot canyon, and the path changed to a stone-paved road. We walked for twenty minutes in the canyon’s shade, past walls with worn carvings of camels and men. We turned a corner, and saw it: google Petra and it’s like half the picture results that come up. The first, most stunning building is known as the Treasury, and yes it’s even cooler than Indiana Jones. Spent half an hour just craning my neck up to take in the whole thing. It’s impossible to communicate how the wind-worn sandstone glows in the morning sun, and how little and young it makes you feel. The only word Collin and I could muster , over and over: “wiiild”. So that’s it. Petra.
But wait just kidding, there’s actually a whole city nestled in the canyon, once home to 40,000 Nabateans. And every carved edifice makes you ask, “what the hell were these people eating, drinking, dreaming about?” So I’m not going to detail every bright-cornered temple, every quiet arch I ducked under, because really this place doesn’t belong in my words. Even today it’s filled with the motion of humanity: hundreds of local Bedouin children hawk postcards (“Hey mister Happy Hour over here, this for 1JD”), hundreds of wide eyed tourists buy them. These camels and donkeys just kind of wander around, saddled but without their owner. About every fifty feet is a tea shop, clothing stand, hookah bar—all make “nice gift for your mother-in-law” as one Bedouin lady told me. It’s a modern town among an ancient one. I guess that was my favorite part: just watching the hustle of people, the buzz of their transactions echoing off the ruins. As old as this place is, it is full of life. Somehow I think it will stay that way.
No comments:
Post a Comment