GlobalShift

Petra: An Epilogue

After several days in Be’er Sheva, our group agreed that a weekend trip to Petra would be an excellent way to relax before transitioning into the West Bank. We had surprisingly little trouble crossing the border at Eilat into Jordan, which signed a peace treaty with Israel in 1994. The biggest problem we encountered was bargaining with the taxi drivers in Aqaba for a reasonable rate. I knew they were ripping us off, but they would not budge; they stood their inflated ground very well. Last summer, my friends and I traveled to Petra and back for so little that I thought we might be ripping the driver off.

Justus (center), Dad (far right), and I enjoy Arabic tea in the Valentine Hostel.

The bumpy ride took us north on a road burrowing through the high ashen peaks of Jordan. Two hours later, we climbed down the slopes into Wadi Musa, “Valley of Moses,” where legend says the prophet used his staff to bring water from a rock and where he saw Canaan before he died. Now, the village sits like an amphitheatre on the hills, bursting with hotels to accommodate thousands of tourists. Our driver turned right at the Shaheed Roundabout and squeezed through a little side road, passing a sign that read: “Valentine Hostel, Was Twaissa Hotel, Welcome, You are just this close.” I stayed in this very cheap and very friendly hostel last summer, and I convinced the four others with me that this was the only place worth staying. The red-carpeted lobby is decorated with posters from around the world, ornamental Jordanian pottery, and a hanging DVD case of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. The same orange cat still sauntered around, occasionally pausing to rip fur out of its back leg and chew on it awkwardly. The tented patio offered an incredible view of the sunset over the mountains, and huge banquets of traditional food were spread out every night on a wide table. We had some time before the feast was ready, so we decided to take a cab ten kilometers out to Little Petra.

The crowded truck sped down the hill, making a right past the main entrance of Petra and swerving left on a road around the site. We drove by the spot where my friends and I abandoned the road last summer to camp out under the stars deep in the craggy sandstone. Little Petra, or Siq al-Barid (Cold Canyon), is, as the name adequately implies, like a miniature version of its more famous counterpart, which was recently honored as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. Some think Siq al-Barid might have been an agricultural outpost, a place for trade and resupply for caravans on the way to Petra. I had never been to Little Petra before, so I excitedly ran inside every tomb digging into the cliffs. I noticed a set of windswept stairs high off the ground, so I climbed the rocks and raced up the narrow path along the edge of the canyon. Justus followed me and we looked down several hundred feet on quick flashes of light as people took pictures of the worn-down façades.

Down in the ravine, another set of stairs led up to levels of unrefined stone castles moving back out of visibility. I leapt and climbed before I banged my knee scampering out of a sandy riverbed. Dad cleaned it later and said the cut needed stitches, but steri-strips would have to do. I dabbed at the laceration, unintentionally painting a red constellation of crescent moons on the piece of toilet paper.

As I limped out of the gorge, I was greeted by a thin young man dressed all in white and wearing a traditional headdress. He stroked his trim mustache as he sophisticatedly smoked a cigarette.

“You,” he said confidently, pointing at me, “are staying at the Valentine Hostel.”

I laughed, asking if my shaggy hair and worn-out clothes pegged me as a backpacker. He grinned broadly and clasped my hand with a firm slap. I told him this was my third time to Jordan.

“Next time, you must stay in my cave,” he said warmly, pointing with his smoldering tobacco back from where I came. I shook his hand and said that I would find him if I ever came back.

The fiery walls of the Siq leading to Petra.

Our driver wove around cars and camels and horses, the white median a mere suggestion as we roller-coasted on both sides of the road past vehicles and roadside talkers. Flickering orange indicated campfires where families huddled around laughing and drinking tea heated over the coals. Flamed pinpricks lit cigarettes in the darkening sky. Spread across the lip of the hill, dripping into the valley, the flickering orange rested and congregated into the lights of Wadi Musa.

The hidden city of Petra is entered by a long passageway called the Siq. The Nabataeans built the “Rose-red City” in the third century BC and from it they commanded the great trade route from Syria to Arabia. They were obviously skilled in sculpting stone, but they also made advances in iron production and hydraulic engineering. Most archaeologists speculate that a series of earthquakes in the sixth century AD compelled the Nabataeans to abandon their achievements.

We set out early through the cool, wide fissure in order to make some headway before the heat arrived. We could see a small sliver of sky above our heads, crammed between the edges of the towering sandstone walls, iridescent in the changing sunlight as if a fire burned beneath the surface. The walls looked like melted wax petrified in furrows and jagged pillars.

The mighty Treasury soon came into view, framed between serrated edges of rock. Originally built almost two thousand years ago as a tomb for a Nabataean king, the immense monument still stands as a testament to the ancients’ unprecedented craftsmanship. Six columns, three on each side of the door into the small room, supported the artwork above, sculptures nestled under ornate turrets and half-pediments. A stone urn sat high above the ground, speckled with bullet holes. Legend has it that the Egyptian pharaoh hid his treasure in the urn while pursuing the Israelites; later, people who believed the story attempted to liberate the gold from its resting place by using their rifles.

We hiked all around the impressive city. Eroding façades, like sandcastles splashed with buckets of water, decorated our path as we started to make our way up to the High Place of Petra. An ancient sacrificial altar rose out of a field of stone that dramatically fell deep into the valley, soon rising once again into rounded peaks. Our descent took us near the eight thousand-seat amphitheater, which sat across the ravine from the grand Royal Tombs. Dad and I wanted to hike something new, so Danielle joined us as we ventured behind the tombs and up the steep mountain. From the top, Petra looked like a model village in a museum. We could see Justus through the binoculars as he passed by the Roman colonnade. The path took us far across the top to the border of a cliff. The pink-red Treasury sat far below, now appearing small in the company of the monuments carved by nature.

Earlier, we took a back road down from the High Place. As I reached the bottom, a little figure popped up from behind a meager souvenir stall and began following me. The kid wore jeans stitched with butterflies and a striped purple sweater. My new companion’s head was wrapped in a black and gray scarf, leaving only a windowed face. At first, I wasn’t sure if my follower was a boy or a girl.

“Shu isma?” I asked, taking a chance by using the masculine form. “What’s your name?”

“Anwar,” came the answer with a grin. A boy’s name.

Anwar waits while I look for Jordanian dinar in my wallet.

I continued to speak in the very little Arabic I know, learning that Anwar was ten years old, before I depleted my vocabulary and we continued the conversation in English. Fortunately for me, Anwar had fairly good English. He started pointing out all the architecture, telling me where the tombs were located and motioning toward the path to Al-Deir, the monastery.

“If you need a guide, you will come find me,” he said proudly.

I smiled and said that I certainly would. As I started to move on Anwar held out his hand and asked if I had any Jordanian dinar. I told him I only had Israeli shekels, and I was sure he would not want those. He looked at me a little skeptically, so I pulled out my wallet and let him search through it. Nothing but shekels.

“You have anything to eat?” Anwar asked. “I’m hungry.”

I looked into his eyes. I didn’t know whether or not Anwar was actually hungry, but either way he was extremely poor. He was probably a member of one of the fifteen or twenty Bedouin families that still lived in the caves hollowing Petra. He stood there with his small dirty hand outstretched and I believed in his sincerity. I smiled and nodded in answer to his question.

“You want a snack?” I asked as I unzipped my backpack.

Anwar scrunched his face quizzically.

“What is a ‘snack’?”

I laughed and said, “It’s something small you eat before dinner.”

I handed him my extra bottle of water and a Nature Valley peanut butter bar. His eyes grew wide and his smile almost spread off his face as he clutched the little meal enthusiastically. Then, Anwar opened his snack and broke off half of it and put it in my hand.

“Here, for you! Eat!”

The first thought this poor hungry kid had was to share his food.

***

Jonathan McRay is a recent graduate of Harding University. He currently resides in Palestine where he works with an organization promoting reconciliation in the area.