#hi I had two beers in a bar with a bunch of flight attendant colleagues and I'm SAD

[boyapologist]

sweetheart please love me too long my heart’s too strong love me too long sweetheart please let me hold on to these old songs I’ve loved too long

[hallsp]

Jordan Diary

What follows is a somewhat lacklustre chronicle of my trip to Jordan, taking in Amman, Aqaba, Petra, and Wadi Rum:

Wednesday, 26th December, 2018

Jordan has a strange, haunting beauty, and a sense of timelessness. Dotted with the ruins of empires once great, it is the last resort of yesterday in the world of tomorrow. – King Hussein bin Talal

I’ve just been woken by a God-awful thud. “Jesus, what fresh hell is this?” I remember thinking. I had a stone-splitting headache but came to my senses quickly enough. The airport, I suddenly remembered! We must have landed at Queen Alia, in Amman. That was where I was supposed to be, after all. I just couldn’t remember how I got here. I didn’t remember the flight. I didn’t really remember boarding. How on God’s green Earth did I get to the airport?

The last thing I can properly recall was ordering a doo-doo shot in a bar on Armenia Street, after my fourth or fifth vodka-redbull. This, on top of a bottle or two of red wine and some beers earlier in the day.

Christmas Day had started out nice and quiet, just like normal: a gathering of friends, lots of cooking and eating food, some pleasant conversation over a few glasses of dinner wine. I hadn’t planned on going out. I hadn’t actually banked on the bars being open. At home, in Ireland, everything is closed for the holiday. It was all Shadi’s fault. And Maryam’s. And Jodey’s.

Now I was hopelessly hungover, possibly still drunk, and I had to navigate a new country through the colourful medium of Arabic, but it didn’t matter, I was here: the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

It was really cold, something close to freezing, far colder than Beirut. I hadn’t anticipated this, and I’d packed in a stupour at 2 in the morning. Clothes-wise, I was woefully unprepared.

I left the airport and tried walking, but it turned out to be a seven hour walk from the airport to Amman city centre. I managed to gauge this almost immediately and turned back in search of shelter. I eventually found a taxi into the city. It cost 20 JD, but I paid him 30 out of sheer gratitude. I had no sense of the conversion rate. I would later discover that a 10 JD tip is outrageous, something like $15. It was like some terrible inversion of Wilde: I knew the value of everything, but the price of nothing.

The hostel, Nomads, on Jabal Amman, is amazing. The staff are friendly, the rooms are nice, the location is central, and the WiFi is excellent. It’s got a good vibe, too, lots of wall paintings and the like:

I joined a free walking tour — recommended price: 5 JD — almost straight away, which left a lot to be desired in the end. The guy walked us around a bunch of shops and souks, for which I’m sure he received some kind of commission. It did give me a sense of the city, though, so I found my bearings fairly easily afterward.

I decided to go for some food. The falafel served at Al-Quds is supposed to be the best, an old Palestinian place named for the city of Jerusalem, and it certainly was. I still have dreams about that falafel sandwich in a crispy sesame bun. It might be the nicest falafel I’ve ever had. I then went for the equally famous kanafeh dessert at Habibah, also a solid recommendation.

Since I hadn’t slept for very long last night, I decided to call it quits early, around about 7ish, but not before buying a wrist watch I had seen earlier in the day — one with Arabic numerals. I’ve been looking for one of these for months.

Thursday, 27th December, 2018

I was up early, about 7 am, to beat the crowds and the impending storm, so off I went to the citadel high above the city. Jabal al-Qala’a it’s called. Somehow, I managed to follow a road up towards the citadel from the wrong side, but I was able to clamber up some rocks and over the wall, accidentally bypassing the ticket office. I had a Jordan Pass, so it didn’t really matter.

Occupied since the early Bronze Age, the citadel has been re-fortified countless times, most recently by the Romans, the Byzantines, and the Umayyads.

Two pillars remain from the Temple of Hercules, built by wise old Emperor Marcus Aurelius in the 2nd century. Also remaining is the entrance hall of the Umayyad Palace, a once-spectacular complex of royal buildings from the 8th century.

Unfortunately, the storm arrived sooner than expected and it started pouring so I went for shelter. When the weather improved a bit, I made my way down to the Roman theatre, a short distance away.

Constructed by the Romans in the 2nd century under Antonius Pius, the theatre can hold up to 6,000 people, and is an iconic building in Amman. Amazingly, it’s still used for concerts and performances.

On my way out of the theatre, some local kids started joking with me in Arabic. I hadn’t a clue what they were saying but they were stunned when I replied in kind, also in Arabic. This was when I met Qusai, a Palestinian-Jordanian who saw the whole thing and came over to talk. He was eager to explain that things were bleak for Palestinians in Jordan. The majority of the 2 million Palestinians in Jordan — including Qusai — have citizenship, but this doesn’t mean much when it comes to prospects for employment. There’s rampant discrimination. This is true for Qusai also, in spite of his qualification in accounting. He’s been attending the recent protests outside the King Hussein Mosque.

At this stage, I desperately needed some food, so I headed to Hashami restaurant, famous in Amman for their hummus and falafel. Pictures of the royal family and other dignitaries adorn the walls, but it’s not a well-to-do place. It’s simple, wholesome food.

It started raining heavily at about midday, and never stopped. I spent the remainder of the day at the Jordan Museum (a steal at 5 JD, no Jordan Pass accepted) to explore the depth of history in this country and, frankly, to get out of the rain.

The museum is impressive. The whole top floor is given over to an expensive exhibition of inventions and discoveries from the Islamic Golden Age, called 1001 Inventions, and featuring a video with Ben Kingsley as the polymath Ismail al-Jazari. The most interesting part, for me at least, was the exhibit on al-Jahiz, who is credited in his Book of Animals with evolutionary ideas which pre-date Darwin. Evolution, as a concept, is generally opposed in the Islamic world, so I was happy to see some accommodation being made on official levels.

I had dinner at Shahrazad, named for the storyteller in One Thousand and One Nights, and recommended by the guide yesterday, where I tried ara’yes, meaning bride, a kind of pita bread filled with minced lamb, onions, parsley, and allspice. It’s then brushed with olive oil, and grilled over hot charcoals. It was tasty, but very filling!

Friday, 28th December, 2018

The desert route to Akaba was so long and so difficult that we could take neither guns nor machine-guns, nor stores, nor regular soldiers. – T. E. Lawrence

Amman is smothered in cloud, raining heavily. The roads have become rivers, torrents of water flowing to God-knows-where.

I decided to catch the 7 am JETT bus from Amman to Aqaba, with my roommate Ryan. It’s a four hour drive, and costs 8.60 JD. They showed an Egyptian movie, which I could follow in parts, and played some Arabic music, featuring my old favourites: Mohamed Mounir and Fairouz.

Jordan is serviced by a highway which runs north-south, known as the Desert Highway, al-Thari2 as-Sahara. The cloud began lifting the further we traveled south, green farmland soon gave way to desert, and flat land became mountainous. You enter the world of the Bedouin.

It’s truly amazing what happens to the weather as you descend into Aqaba, though. As we moved south and descended towards the Red Sea, the temperature rose dramatically, from 8 to 18 degrees. It has its own little micro-climate here.

I like Aqaba. It’s small, but full of history. The British and the Arabs, along with Lawrence of Arabia, famously took Aqaba from the Ottomans in July, 1917. Instead of coming by the sea, as was expected, the Arabs came across the open desert and won a decisive battle.

It’s a frontier city. It’s from here that you can see four countries: Jordan, of course, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt:

Ryan, my English roommate, wanted to buy some souvenirs so we shopped around for a little while. He eventually bought a few things at one place owned and operated by Mohammad, an Egyptian guy, who gave us a good price. I love Egyptians, and there are loads of them in Aqaba; we bonded over our shared love for Mohamed Mounir.

Ryan and I decided to go for a pint — there’s a Jordanian beer called Petra I wanted to sample — in the Rover’s Return, an English pub near the city centre. It’s beside an Irish pub, but this was closed. We had to cross into a tourist-only area, and show our passports. While passing, I said jokingly: Ana ajnaby. I’m a foreigner. Surprised at my Arabic, the bowab, or doorman, apologised for not speaking English and asked me to go over to the duty-free shop and buy cigarettes for him. I wouldn’t have to pay tax, you see. I agreed. I glided in and asked for his brand. The uniformed customs official just laughed and called over his two colleagues. This wasn’t the first time he’d had this specific request, clearly. He asked for my passport and asked who it was for. “Me,” I said. More laughs. This obviously wasn’t going to work. One of the other men asked if it was for the bowab outside. “Tab3an,” I replied, caving under the pressure of the interrogation, “of course.” There were laughs all around this time. The official denied my request, but after much pleading in my best (or worst) Arabic, he finally agreed and stamped my passport.

The beer was really nice, and the weather was gorgeous, so it was nice to sit outside. Just as we were sipping our drinks, an air show started in the skies over Aqaba, right over the border with Israel. Four planes performed synchronized displays, and then each would perform its own crazy manoeuvre.

I had a good look around the old ruins of Ayla, the ancient city known to the Hebrews as Elath, and to the Romans as Aela, before boarding the bus back to Amman.

Saturday, 29th December, 2018

The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, which Man deemed old two thousand years ago, match me such marvel save in Eastern clime, a rose-red city half as old as time. – John William Burgon

I woke early again, this time to get the JETT bus to Petra at 6.30 am, which cost me 11 JD. There were loads of people vying for a seat so I was glad I had reserved the night before, though a second bus was quick to arrive.

We arrived at Petra about 11.30 am, after some delays. I left my backpack in one of the souvenir shops in the car park, and went straight inside. I had come to Jordan especially to see Petra, one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World, so I wasn’t going to waste any time.

Petra was the capital city of Nabataea, one of the so-called “incense-states,” wealthy kingdoms which prospered in the Red Sea region, largely because of trade between Arabia and the Mediterranean. In 100 BC, when the kingdom was at its height, about 30,000 people lived in Petra. The city was eventually captured by the Romans in AD 106.

I trekked all the way down to the canyon, and began the long walk through the narrow gorge known in Arabic as: al-Siq, the Shaft. It’s a gorgeous sandstone chasm with huge rock-faces either side of the passageway.

After some time, you reach the famous Treasury, al-Khazneh in Arabic, the most beautiful and elaborate building in all of Petra. Its name derives from folktales about treasure hidden at the site. Constructed by the Nabataeans as a royal mausoleum in the first century of the common era, it’s an astonishing achievement. It’s simply breathtaking to behold.

I walked the entire complex, following the route from the entrance all the way to the Monastery, past the Treasury, the Royal Tombs, the Theatre, and the Colonnaded Street. It takes about three hours, all in all, walking at a leisurely pace. The path up to the Monastery, the final hour of the walk, is all up hill and very steep, so it takes some doing. The view at the end is worth it, though:

The Monastery, larger but less ornate than the Treasury, also gets its name from an Arabic nickname, al-Deir. In reality, it was probably a temple dedicated to the Nabataean King Obodas I.

The poet John William Burgon referred to Petra as: “a rose-red city half as old as time.” It does feel timeless, but it’s the colour of the stone city which really grabs you. There are so many shades of red: rose, crimson, garnet, but also purples. The sun works magic with the rock in this place.

Eventually, I made it up to my hostel, Rafiki, just up the hill in the nearby town of Wadi Musa, getting there for about 5 pm. This place was a bit of a dive, I thought, but soon realised how much of a gem it really was. The staff were a bunch of legends, for a start.

Later that evening, I overheard a guy speaking with an Eastern European accent but with Irish overtones, so I quizzed him. It turned out that he was Slovakian but he’s been living in Ireland for fifteen years, in Dalkey no less, just down the road from me. We drink in the same bars. “That’s funny, what a small world,” I thought.

A little while later, I bumped into a Japanese girl, Kurumi, who I had seen on the bus and at Petra that morning. We got chatting. “I’m living in Dublin,” she said at one point. “Sorry,” I said in shock, “is that somewhere near Tokyo?” “No,” she laughed, “I’m learning English in Ireland.” Well, jumping Jesus. It certainly is a small world, and getting smaller.

I opted to stay at the hostel for dinner, and I was glad I did. I’ve never seen such a good spread: a chicken dish with rice, alongside vegetable curry, bread, hummus, falafel, salads, and pasta, with dessert to follow. It was a feast for 5 JD. I went to bed early again, as Kurumi and I have agreed to go to Petra first thing in the morning, as soon as it opens at 6 am.

Sunday, 30th December, 2018

Wow! Getting to Petra early has really paid off. There’s almost nobody here. It’s a much more imposing site in the quiet of the morning without all the hustle and bustle of tourists coming and going. It’s really peaceful, more majestic even.

Today, I have one goal: walking the trail known in Arabic as al-Kubtha. It’s a long walk up through the mountains, but it promises breathtaking views of the Treasury. It took us about an hour, with Kurumi and I arriving around 7 am. The early wake-up and the steep climb together turned out to be a very small price to pay:

We had the view over the Treasury almost to ourselves, though people started arriving very soon afterward. What a view, though!

We spent about an hour overlooking everything and watching the world go by, before descending down the mountain for lunch at a Bedouin restaurant near to the entrance. I had chicken galayet, a local favourite, which was chicken with tomato and onion, stewed until soft, and seasoned with garlic, olive oil, and salt. I noticed some David Roberts lithographs on the walls. You see these all over the Levant.

Finally, we went back to Petra for one last look around. I opted for some horsepower in making the journey from the site entrance to the canyon, which helped after all the walking. We walked up to take a look at an old 6th century Byzantine church near the Royal Tombs, almost opposite the Theatre.

I bought a couple of fake antique coins from an old Bedouin man who pointed at one set of coins and announced: “Made in Taiwan.” He had a good sense of humour, and I wanted cheap fakes rather than real coins, which were available but came at a price.

It was about 4 pm when we decided to say goodbye to Petra. I thought that was it, until we got back to the hostel. I had a shower and opted for dinner in the hostel again, which was even better than yesterday. After dinner, there was a big commotion. Emil, the Slovakian guy, had met an Italian girl named Rosa, who had it on good authority that Petra By Night, which is exactly what you think it is, was running tonight. I had read somewhere that it ran only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, and had resigned myself to missing it. However, the New Year had altered the schedule.

Suddenly, a guy came through the door with tickets (17 JD), and we were all immediately climbing into a taxi. We had to rush so not to miss it, but we arrived just in time, and got decent seats. It was cold, and dark, but the whole path up to the Treasury was lined with candles. It was really beautiful. We were given Arabic tea, which is to say sugary tea, on arrival and then it began. There was music, beautiful, haunting Arabic music, and then some storytelling, and then — it was over! Just as soon as it started, or so it seemed, it was finished. It was worth it, though, to see the place one last time and in the stillness of the night.

When we returned to the hostel, I told the others of my plan to visit Wadi Rum the next day, and to spend New Year’s Eve in the desert with the Bedouin. I sent a flurry of emails to my contact and arranged for all of us to go together: Myself, Kurumi, Emil, and Rosa. It would be another early night.

Monday, 31st December, 2018

Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab’s tents are rude for thee; But oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love or thrones without? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness – Thomas Moore

We got the 6.15 minibus — all four of us — from Petra to Wadi Rum for 8 JD each, and it collected us from the hostel, so that made things much easier.

We arrived about 8.30, and found Salem, our Bedouin guide. We threw all of our luggage into a 4X4 and started our tour of Wadi Rum. This place is stunning:

It was used to film much of Lawrence of Arabia, and, unsurprisingly, it’s often used as a stand-in for the surface of Mars, most recently in the movie The Martian, with Matt Damon.

We got to see lots of different locations, including the Seven Pillars, so-named after Lawrence of Arabia’s book of the same name, and Lawrence’s Spring, which is still used to water the camels. A type of wild sage grows around the water, which gives a lovely smell.

One of the most glorious locations was the Khaz’ali Canyon, which contained ancient inscriptions, some from pre-history, some in Nabataean, and still others in old Arabic. There was a fig tree at the entrance to the canyon which caught the light so splendidly:

We made it back to our camp to watch the last sunset of 2018 from high up on a mountain. When we climbed down, and made it back to camp, tea was served around a fire in the main tent. Salem’s uncle played the oud. Now, in the darkness, around the camp fire, I really got a sense for what it must be like to live with the elements here. It was an amazing experience.

The family cooked a huge amount of food, chicken and vegetables, in a pit in the sand, not unlike a fualacht fiadh at home in Ireland, though here the food is predominantly steamed. They also served various salads, along with staple dishes like hummus, and their speciality, moutabal.  

We all went star-gazing for the last couple of hours. I’ve never seen so many stars in my life, the sky was ablaze with distant suns. You could clearly see the band of the Milky Way. It was astounding. What stories must have been told of these wandering lights! We returned to camp for the countdown, and afterwards, in the far-flung distance, we could see fireworks exploding in the dark.

Tuesday, 1st January, 2019

We returned to Wadi Rum village for about 8.30 am, to go our separate ways. My flight home to Beirut was at 3 pm, so I had to get a bit of a move on. There are no buses to Amman from Wadi Rum, so my only options were a bus to Petra, then another bus, or a taxi to Aqaba, and a bus from there, but both options left me with little time. I had no real option but to get a taxi straight to the airport. Luckily, with some cajoling, Salem arranged for a taxi all the way from Wadi Rum to Queen Alia, with a detour to see the ancient mosaics in Madaba, for the low price of 100 JD. It was a four hour drive all the way north. It would be tight.

My driver turned out to be the greatest human being on Earth. Ali, the man, the legend. We spoke only Arabic for the entire trip, which occasionally (often, actually) strained my meagre abilities almost to breaking point, but I loved him. He was enthusiastic about everything. First, he tried to tell me all about Islam, but gave up that venture pretty quickly. Next, we moved on to music. He introduced me to Mehad Hamad from the UAE, Mashael from Saudi Arabia, Shaima Al Shayeb, and Sabah. I had the good fortune of introducing him to — who else? — Mohamed Mounir. We sang the whole way from Wadi Rum to Queen Alia International.

We parted as true friends, with promises to see each other again.