Follow me, I know the way!

A screaming mob rattled the gates of immigration at Aqaba port on our arrival. Armed men held the crowds back threateningly. We were a little intimidated, but not so much as a lone Japanese boy who was being monstered by taxi drivers. Weisie and I saved him from an indeterminate fate, but in spite of friendly quizzing during the half-hour ride into town, we failed to raise him from a monosyllabic state. We left probably the most boring person we have every met at his nominated hotel but before we could say a bad word against him, we counted the money he gave us for sharing the ride and smiled. Great bloke, but good luck.

We spent the night in an ordinary hostel but celebrated making it this far by splurging on a Chinese meal and non-non-alcoholic beer.

The prospect of catching a bus to Wadi Rum evaporated when we learned that it was a holy day and that even though it was 7 am we had missed the only bus. We opted for an extra day in Wadi Mousa (Petra) – a difficult decision to make because we were both looking forward to spending a night in the desert under the stars.

The hotel at Wadi Mousa was fantastic. It had high ceilings, new furniture and an uninterrupted view from a private balcony over the whole valley. I mention this because we had not had a soft bed, air-conditioning or space to Salsa in over a month. We walked into town, spent an hour at the local eatery mulling over whether to have “frieds” or “ships” with our shwermera, then returned to the hotel to rest up for the next two days, which promised to be the biggest of the whole journey.

We took on provisions at the “Indiana Johnes” snack shop, refused every man offering a “free” donkey to get into Petra and began the long, dusty pilgrimage down the valley to the entrance of the “Siq”, the winding chasm that leads into the heart of the wondrous, petrified Nabatean city. Every turn promised to reveal the “Treasury”, which featured in the closing scenes of “The Last Crusade”, and eventually the way opened up and there it was.




In spite of our penitence, knowledge of ancient Hebrew, and utmost faith, we did not meet the spectral warrior-monk guarding a cache of false grails. In fact, even the largest tomb in Petra was completely barren, but still so beautiful on account of the colourful striations in the walls and ceilings.

We spent a whole day snapping photos, wandering and climbing to the “High Places” before getting utterly lost trying to find our way out of the site via a lesser Siq to the north. Short on water, energy and humour, our spirits faded with the setting sun. I climbed a cliff to survey the way ahead and decided we should turn back. But then I lost Weisie amongst the rocks. Needless to say, we were happily (and tearily) reunited and made our way back through Petra and back up the main Siq.

The second day was less adventurous but no less exhausting. However, this time we enlisted the assistance of two donkeys called Jack and Michael Jackson by their young, tyrannical owners.




The “Monastery” is probably the most impressive temple/tomb (its later use leading to its current name). But Jack and Michael were not really up to the task of climbing the thousand or so steps with us on their backs. The odd stumble and teeter near the dizzyingly sheer drop-offs convinced us that they were certainly not capable of taking us back down again so we made our own way and met them at the bottom.




We decided to spare the lives of our poor beasts after Jack, my donkey, adopted a limb following a particularly severe “motivational” kick in the rump by his owner. We thanked and paid the boys and walked for the rest of the day. In total, I would guess we covered about 30 kilometres on foot in two days.

That night we had our first plate of “mensaf”, a Bedouin lamb, yoghurt, spice and rice dish. Although we did not realise this at the time, the only other diners at the restaurant, were a lovely couple who we later met again and befriended in Syria (more of them soon).

Our next stop was the capital, Amman, which we visited during an unfortunately rainy period. Protected from the drizzle by Mr Gore’s fabulous fabric, we braved the city streets, citadel and archaeological museum. Even Weisie, who was by this stage coming down with “museum ad nausea”, was impressed by the small collection, which included some copper scrolls from that now infamous Dead Sea library.




We used Amman as a base to visit the surrounding area. We met the nicest Egyptian man there, who prepared the world’s best fruit drinks, which substituted for our dinner each evening. He would busy himself unseen behind the counter, cutting this, blending that, then present us with two colourful concoctions and declare, “No ice! No water!” We were obviously not the first tourists in Amman.

An hour or so from Amman was the Dead Sea – an extraordinarily salty body of water that tasted awful (a drop in the mouth caused you to spit continuously for an hour). But, the bizarre buoyancy was great fun. You could recline comfortably on your side, lie on your stomach or sit down with your feet in the air. The thick, slimy mud and sharp rocks made getting in and out difficult, and the wind tended to whip up sand and sting our soft bodies. But, neither the foregoing nor the cold showers afterwards could stop us from enjoying this rare phenomenon. (Yes, I am wearing googles.)




After our dip, we stood by the highway, shaking sand out of unnatural places, waiting for transport back to Amman. After an hour we decided to hitch a ride with a pleasant Palestinian farmer, who agreed to take us in his Ute to his village, where a bus would take us the rest of the way. We were a little worryingly dropped off at the Jordan/Israel border town of North Shouna. But, as promised, a bus showed up and before long we were on the way back to Amman.

The next day we visited Jerash, which would have been the most impressive ruined city we had ever seen – had we not just come from Egypt and Petra. That is not to say it was not impressive, for undoubtedly it was. But the early start, travel time and relentless rain took the edge off. Yet, some of the best photos we took were at Jerash so it is strange looking back at them now and comparing the experience with my diary. It was, however, one of our most memorable days because we missed the last bus and had to, for the second day in a row, hitch a ride. This time was a little more harrowing, but we made it safely and we laughed at how Weisie’s mother would kill us if she ever found out! Woops.