Desert Snow

18 February 2013

The killer camels required safety from a distance

Jordan is in a region that is as unstable as an epileptic with Tourette’s. With hatred and ignorance and general not getting on with each other all around it, how it manages to continue along its pleasant ways is to be admired and should be an example to all of those from the outside, looking in. King Abdullah and his attractive wife and their strangely Swedish looking children are doing an excellent job, so say the people.

Heh heh. Mule

We arrived late one night from the airport into a bus station that may or may not have been in Jordan. After some friendly arguing with our cabbie over what the fare should be, we arrived at a hotel that will certainly make the final list of disagreeable hotel rooms we have slept in, thanks to the hole in the bathroom wall giving us panoramic views over Amman, and providing the local residents with an extra shower currently not required due to the bucketing the city was receiving from the heavens. Although the bed was very comfortable, it was hard to sleep knowing that at any moment the unguarded heater that was doing admirably well keeping as warm from the chill infecting its way into our room via the aforementioned hole, could ignite the bedspread and that’s our $10 room rate wasted. It would have been a shame to have to confess to the super friendly receptionist that the charred remains of his hotel our doing.

Shortly after 5am, we rose and picked up our backs and tiptoed carefully around the filth staining the floor foyers and grabbed our breakfast to go for an early start south to Petra. I popped outside, where the rain was still steady and annoying, to hail a taxi, and there in all his excellent business sense was the cabbie from last night, aware we needed to depart at this time for the once a day bus south. So we jumped in, and continued our sociable disagreement over correct fares, and were at the bus station in no time, where I dropped the correct couple of dinars into his hand to his glum response.

The donuts had been left in the cabinet well past their expiry date

By 6am already a few travellers had arrived at the station, and like them, we were told that there possibly would be no bus today due to heavy snow in Petra and the surrounds making the roads impassable. Half an hour later, he confirmed that the one and only service was cancelled. Staying in Amman, unlikely to vie for any city of excitement credentials, wasn’t really an option. We put our heads together with a few other backpackers and decided we would take the slightly later bus to Aqaba, a university city in the south of Jordan on the coast, and port for ferry crossings into Egypt. From here it may just be possible to take another bus or taxi to Petra. At very worst, Aqaba is a cool place to while away for a while.

Luck was on our side, and upon arrival we were greeted by some bored taxi drivers who were more than willing to take us the 200 plus kilometres to Petra, and at an excellent price. We bundled into separate cabs (which were actually private cars and the taxi drivers were actually just drivers) and headed back towards Petra. The comfort factor wasn’t exactly first class, but Fahid, our driver, kept us very entertained with his cassette of power ballads featuring none other than Richard Marx, Bryan Adams and The Heights, among others.

Right here waiting...for a barber.

Stuck in rocks

Occasionally it snows in Petra. It’s not uncommon to see the odd, small flurry in January or February, but a heavy snowfall is generally quite rare. We were extremely lucky to see the desert mountainside covered in bright white, in fluffy, playful snow. We cleared foggy windows to see Jordanians of all ages running excitedly in the snow, and clambering up rocks to decorate them with snowmen. Their joy was infectious

 As Jordan is generally not equipped to deal with these sorts of climatic conditions, the country can very easily come to a standstill. Which is why the roads were closed, as buses and trucks were erring on the side of caution and playing things very safe. Private drivers hold no such fears, and were happy to test theirs and their foreign passengers mettles as the hooned down half open narrow roads, in and out of oncoming fog-lit traffic and past the odd agricultural grader drafted in to clear the roads in absence of any snow plows. Add to this that icy rain was still petering from the sky; you were hoping that a miraculous image of a gritter with Dead Sea salt would appear to make the roads a little safer, but this would not come.

Thanks to a lucky earthquake on the day, tourists didn't have to pay the entry fee into Petra

The midget tourists would find it impossible to trespass

Two hours later we miraculously avoided plunging into one of the many canyons that make up this magnificent valley, and Fahid dropped us off at our hotel. The hotel didn’t have a cassette player so I was unable to borrow his mix tape, but I left with many eighties memories.

Petra, one of the Seven Wonders of the World, is also known as the Rose City, located in the town of Wadi Musa.

The killer camels enlisted human help to ward off posers

We had hoped to visit the sire of Petra on the first afternoon in addition to the following day, as there is much to see and navigate. Unfortunately the incessant rain put paid to that and the site was closed early, forbidding us to enter. We learnt later that one of the guys we shared taxis with to get here had to be rescued by the local constabulary when flash flooding rushed through the gorges, when he was on a visit just before us on the first afternoon.

So with rumbling stomachs we headed into down and ate kebabby type food in a local joint. On the way out, we stopped into a local market to get some snacks, planning to eat our afternoon away in our hotel room watching Jordanian soap operas, thanks to the rain. The man behind the counter struck up a conversation with us (the usual; “Where are you from?” “First time in Jordan?” and “I’ll give you six camels for your girlfriend”), and we asked him where we could buy some fruit. He replied that it’s too wet to go wandering about (By this stage, it was torrentially pissing it down), and seeing as he needed to visit the fruit market, he would take us. Going with the flow as we generally are often bound to do when travelling, we jumped into his car, which was the nicest car we have seen in the Middle East (it didn’t have any scratches or dents from other crazy drivers, but give it time I say), and we sat back for the short drive. He introduced himself as Ali, the local bloke in town who everyone knows. I asked him who was going to look after his shop while we were gone and he explained that anyone who comes in would know what to do.

After swallowing the remote control a quick press to the childs belly would turn on  Farmer Wants a Wife.

Wolf Boy always made intriguing pictures

Ali took us around the market and we sampled some produce, and paid about two bucks for s stack of fresh fruit. We were just about to say goodbye and walk home, but the rain became heavier and was hitting us sideways, so Ali offered to drive us. A few hundred metres down the road and by now the rain was biblical and the storm monsoonal. Water and melted snow was roaring down the streets and into the creek, threatening to take the parked cars and homeless cats with it. Ali suggested we come for coffee at his place, until the rain, if ever, stopped.

What followed was a glorious example of Arabic hospitality at its warm and absolute best. We were greeted at the door by Ali’s wife and four kids, and were invited into the family home, where we sat and had tea. After some conversation we were fed some pretty tasty home made cake and fruit, some more tea, more cakes and again, a stack more fruit. In fact, each time we emptied a plate, as is the Arabic way, more food would come. Emptying a plate not only meant that we enjoyed it, to our hosts it signified that we were still hungry, which we weren’t. Our bellies were rising rapidly with the mountains of food being piled into us, we just couldn’t say no. But after a couple of incredibly friendly hours, it was time for us to go. We tracked down our camera that was being used by one of Ali’s youngest daughters to go snap happy around the house, and the man of the house drove us back to hour hotel and wished us all the best for the future.

Teaching the young photographer focus was very difficult

Mrs Ali tried to blend in with the settee with little success

We spent a short time that evening with some people we met on the bus/taxi run in the Cave Bar, so called as it is located inside a cave. Who would have thought? The cave dates back about two thousand years but the prices of drinks don’t. We haven’t paid twenty bucks for a couple of drinks since we were in Australia, so we mulled over what we had and drank slowly.

The following morning it was time to visit Petra. If you haven’t had a chance to visit this place yet, put it on your must do in life list. Failing that, pop on the third Indiana Jones movie and the final scenes will lead you into an incredibly awesome sight.

Starting at the entrance, obviously, we made our way down the Siq, or main road, past ancient caves and rock carvings and roman aqueducts sewn into the walls. Horses gently trot alongside you and the echoing hooves take you back to another time of chariots and Romans. Just over half an hour later, the magnificent rose Treasury peeks into view, teasing and tempting you with sheer elegance. The excitement reaches a crescendo as you pick up the pace for the full view that is staggering beyond belief. The façade is decorated and adorned with intricate carvings, urns and calendars. The odd camel and Bedouin local adds to the atmosphere while the postcard touts try to ruin it. Further on down the expanses widen, with caves and monasteries and theatres dotting the landscape. Patience was required today, as due to the days of heavy rain, many parts of the site were closed and police were not letting many tourists pass into certain areas. However, it seemed that the local traders and donkey-for-hire sellers had more clout here, as concerned about the minimal business the law’s decision was bringing in, they took matters into their own hands and almost stormed the barricades to allow further access into the park. The coppers were helpless to really do anything at all. Because of the extended delays and waiting for parts to open up, we lost a lot of time and had to turn back, as we needed to get on a bus to Amman that afternoon.

The camel pickpockets were making their move.

Pacmans escape hole was easily spotted

The door installer knew he would regret forgetting his ladder

Everyone in Petra has their own opinion on when buses depart. We asked around and were given about seventy-five different times, but in the end the actual time wasn’t any of the ones mentioned to us. The tickets are bought from the driver, and the process went a little like this;

Me” Can I have two tickets to Amman please” (I pronounced this Arrmarn)

Driver “No, this bus goes to Amman”  (He pronounced this Aman)

Me “Yes, that’s where I would like to go, Amman”

Driver “No we only go to Amman, not M’aun” (A local city pronounced Arrmarn)

Me “I see. So which bus goes to Aman?

Driver “This one does”

Me” Cool, I’ll have two tickets to Amman”

Driver” No, we go to Aman”

Blank stares and wry smiles, but we were on our way to Aman, or Amman, or somewhere.

Where we actually wanted to go was Madaba, a city just south of Amman well known for its mosaics and vibrant young population who enjoy the odd alcoholic beverage and dressing up like boy band members. The bus didn’t pass there but the driver dropped us off on the side of the highway, put us on another bus, which then dropped us off again at the side of the same highway, a few kilometres ahead. The driver pointed to the overpass, told us to walk up to the busy highway, and flag down a bus, bike or beast to take us to our destination. So in darkness we struggled with our backpacks up a steep hill, onto the road, where barely a minute had passed before a mini bus stopped for these two gringos. “Madaba?” I requested, and with a nod of the head from the driver, onward we went.

The driver still had no idea where exactly we wanted to go, and seeing as our Arabic was as good as his English, this may be difficult. But he telephoned his friend, who spoke English, and passed the phone to us, and he translated our directions. Later, he passed the phone back to us, and got his friend to tell us that he had to stop and get petrol and some dinner for his wife and kids so it will take an extra ten minutes or so. We made it to our hotel with many smiles, all for a few dollars and another enjoyable travel experience. It’s the simple things that tend to make some of the best memories.

Ignoring hitchhiker trees was the safest way to go

Israel, over there. 

The next day was to be our last, but thanks to a late flight out, we were able to explore the surrounds a bit in depth. One of these was a visit to the Dead Sea.

The drive along the Kings Highway to get here is incredible scenic and interesting. We stopped at a place on the way in the middle of the road where science was playing tricks on us. Facing uphill, the driver put his car in neutral after stopping the engine, released the hand-brake, and thinking we would roll back down and be involved in a fiery crash with a gas tanker, we were amazed when the car rolled uphill! To prove this backward motion theory that I need to get a nerd to explain, water was poured on the ground and guess what, it flowed uphill. Hmm, as we proceeded from this mind fuck to the Dead Sea.

The Dead Sea swimming marathon was a long long event

Crocs in the sea. Literally

The Dead Sea sits below sea level so as such it is the saltiest body of water on earth. Despite the slightly chilly outside temperatures, we slipped on our swimsuits and floated, rolled and bathed, but never sunk, across the Dead Sea. It was quite a placid and pleasing experience, soaking up the salt and sun for an hour while gazing across the water to Israel. But of course it pays to be careful and not get any water near your eyes or mouth, for obvious reasons. So of course I decided it would be an excellent idea to taste the saltiness of the water by dipping my tongue into it. They generally say that stupid people do stupid things and I can attest to this. Another moment where Kylie just shakes her head at me.

Also on the day trip with our friendly cabbie we visited Mount Nebo, where it is said Moses looked out onto the Promised Land and is said to have died there. They say he was well into his hundreds when he popped it so he did well. Must have been all those Dead Sea health and exfoliation products the touts try to flog you down on the shoreline.

So Jordan, along with the Middle East was done and dusted, like democracy in some of these parts. Next stop, Thailand, where from a tuk tuk we shall report next.

How do you talk to an angel? You just say, Hey Lo.