On the Bedouin of Petra
I arrived to Amman Queen Alia airport at some ungodly hour, and following the officials' thirty-minute examination of my passport (for what, I don't know) I walked down to motorway and stuck my thumb out. In Jordan, hitchhiking is not quite as well understood as in Iraqi Kurdistan. Around half of the drivers are spontaneous taxis whose prices can vary wildly, whilst the others simply want to give you a ride and welcome you to Jordan. That day I had not yet learned to avoid the profit-seeking cars, so my journey to Petra was not quite free.
It took me the better part of the day to get to the famed rocks, but I had good reason for travelling so far on so little sleep on my first day in a new country. A dear friend of mine had told me of the Bedouin in Petra, "The Johnny Depp people; make friends with them and they'll give you somewhere to sleep." And indeed, walking through the glorious national park I did see many long-haired, confident, dark-eyed young men wandering around in their beautiful home. They shouted offers of donkey rides or secret tours to passers-by, often able to identify their potential customers' country of origin and thus use the appropriate language to conduct their trade. Most of the tourists ignored the Bedouin - seeing them as an interesting but at times obnoxious element of the scenery. In return the Bedouin seemed to have a somewhat jaded view of the visitors to their home.
I was trying to make eye-contact with those men I presumed to be Bedouin. I didn't particularly want what they were selling, but hoped that if i could find the right words I might make friends and not transactions. Three or four men sat just after the famed church in the rock; the one everybody recognises from Indiana Jones. They were had the distinct style of the Bedouin youth - silky black hair, beards, head scarf, but with tight-fitting, layered European clothing. "Welcome!" they called out to me, "sit with us." They asked me where I was from, what I thought of Petra etc., and then whether they could have some of the cold water I had bought in Wadi Musa. Assuming they were thirsty, I passed them the two-liter bottle which they partially decanted into a smaller bottle. The liquid abruptly turned white, "What you got in there?" I asked somewhat naively. "Arak - you want some?" Now, I'll be honest - I don't particularly care for this aniseed-based liquor as I had some unfortunate experiences under the care of its Greek cousin, Ouzo when around six years ago. However, this seemed to be my proverbial olive branch so I accepted the drink while suppressing a gag, and after a couple of sips I was beginning to enjoy it.
Within five minutes of encountering these young men, one of them offered me a meal and a space to sleep in his cave. "I see you with your backpack, you don't stay in a hotel. You travel like we travel." he said as he passed me the Arak again. "We are the police here. The sign says you must leave at 7, but if you stay with us there is no problem." This was of course exactly what I had been hoping for! The boys were eager to let me see more of the park before dark, so told me to meet them at the same spot in an hour or so. I asked them how late they'd be there, but they're not the sort of people to keep time.
After about twenty minutes of walking I noticed another of these mysterious men perched peacefully on a rock, staring out across the many miles of red stone. He was a long way above me but I decided to try and get to his spot. The stairs were steep and each step was harder than the last due to the heat coupled with my fogginess from the joint. I pushed through and overtook a Japanese couple before I, sweaty and breathless, made it to the perch. I sat next to the thin, full-bearded, pensive man who turned to me and asked where I was from and how my travels were. He, just as his kin I had just met, offered me his cave for the night as well as a secret tour of Petra.
My new friend (we'll call him Abdul) and I gradually accumulated a group of around nine tourists and walked on the edge of the cliffs under which the various indicative emblematic architectural wonders of Petra lay. He led us patiently on Mr William, his main mode of transport and friend. The destination was a place where we would be able to see the church from above, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't exhausted by the time I got there! I climbed and stumbled across the rocky terrain as the British girls behind me mumbled their fear and vague disapproval. The views were of course fantastic.
After a couple of hours our party, in parallel with the sun, descended down one side of the mountain. It took little time for Abdul, Mr William, and I to be the only members of our party remaining - the other foreigners had not been enticed by his offer of room and board in his cave. We went first to the town to buy some all-important Arak, as well as some hummus and bread for the night. We then sat on a rock overlooking what's known as 'Little Petra' and watched the sun set over the glorious scenery while eating hummus and sipping the creamy-white liquor from plastic cups. My friend told me about a French girl who had lived with him in his cave for a few weeks. She wanted him to come back and live in France with her, but this was something he could not do. "Petra is my home, it is beautiful and I don't want to leave. I don't want to live in a house. Besides, there are many forms to fill out and I cannot read."
Abdul decided that we should go to the Bedouin village on the other side of Petra. This resulted in some embarrasingly unsteady walking across the rocks to the road. The town we arrived at seemed to me like something out of a fable. Male and female Bedouin covered the unlit streets, some on horses, some on foot and a few in vehicles. I followed closely behind Mr William and Abdul, and quickly became the town spectacle. "Welcome," they invariably told me, "You are staying in the village or in the cave?" Our party grew again as friends of Abdul joined us to discretely sip Arak out of view of the more pious elders.
I was somewhat surprised when I made it to Abdul's cave without falling over. We entered his home through a metal door in the rock, installed by the resident. The surprisingly large room was furnished in typical Arab fashion with striped, squat sofas lining the walls. "Make yourself at home." I stared up at the at the swirling emerald green patterns on the ceiling, listening to the chatter of the young men, and sipped Arak until I fell into a deep, blissful slumber.
I had many more encounters over the next couple with these beautiful, hospitable people but I will not write them here. Suffice it to say that their kindness and love for their landscape, be it in the desert or in the mountains, is imperforate in its purity.
It took me the better part of the day to get to the famed rocks, but I had good reason for travelling so far on so little sleep on my first day in a new country. A dear friend of mine had told me of the Bedouin in Petra, "The Johnny Depp people; make friends with them and they'll give you somewhere to sleep." And indeed, walking through the glorious national park I did see many long-haired, confident, dark-eyed young men wandering around in their beautiful home. They shouted offers of donkey rides or secret tours to passers-by, often able to identify their potential customers' country of origin and thus use the appropriate language to conduct their trade. Most of the tourists ignored the Bedouin - seeing them as an interesting but at times obnoxious element of the scenery. In return the Bedouin seemed to have a somewhat jaded view of the visitors to their home.I was trying to make eye-contact with those men I presumed to be Bedouin. I didn't particularly want what they were selling, but hoped that if i could find the right words I might make friends and not transactions. Three or four men sat just after the famed church in the rock; the one everybody recognises from Indiana Jones. They were had the distinct style of the Bedouin youth - silky black hair, beards, head scarf, but with tight-fitting, layered European clothing. "Welcome!" they called out to me, "sit with us." They asked me where I was from, what I thought of Petra etc., and then whether they could have some of the cold water I had bought in Wadi Musa. Assuming they were thirsty, I passed them the two-liter bottle which they partially decanted into a smaller bottle. The liquid abruptly turned white, "What you got in there?" I asked somewhat naively. "Arak - you want some?" Now, I'll be honest - I don't particularly care for this aniseed-based liquor as I had some unfortunate experiences under the care of its Greek cousin, Ouzo when around six years ago. However, this seemed to be my proverbial olive branch so I accepted the drink while suppressing a gag, and after a couple of sips I was beginning to enjoy it.
Within five minutes of encountering these young men, one of them offered me a meal and a space to sleep in his cave. "I see you with your backpack, you don't stay in a hotel. You travel like we travel." he said as he passed me the Arak again. "We are the police here. The sign says you must leave at 7, but if you stay with us there is no problem." This was of course exactly what I had been hoping for! The boys were eager to let me see more of the park before dark, so told me to meet them at the same spot in an hour or so. I asked them how late they'd be there, but they're not the sort of people to keep time.
After about twenty minutes of walking I noticed another of these mysterious men perched peacefully on a rock, staring out across the many miles of red stone. He was a long way above me but I decided to try and get to his spot. The stairs were steep and each step was harder than the last due to the heat coupled with my fogginess from the joint. I pushed through and overtook a Japanese couple before I, sweaty and breathless, made it to the perch. I sat next to the thin, full-bearded, pensive man who turned to me and asked where I was from and how my travels were. He, just as his kin I had just met, offered me his cave for the night as well as a secret tour of Petra.
My new friend (we'll call him Abdul) and I gradually accumulated a group of around nine tourists and walked on the edge of the cliffs under which the various indicative emblematic architectural wonders of Petra lay. He led us patiently on Mr William, his main mode of transport and friend. The destination was a place where we would be able to see the church from above, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't exhausted by the time I got there! I climbed and stumbled across the rocky terrain as the British girls behind me mumbled their fear and vague disapproval. The views were of course fantastic.
After a couple of hours our party, in parallel with the sun, descended down one side of the mountain. It took little time for Abdul, Mr William, and I to be the only members of our party remaining - the other foreigners had not been enticed by his offer of room and board in his cave. We went first to the town to buy some all-important Arak, as well as some hummus and bread for the night. We then sat on a rock overlooking what's known as 'Little Petra' and watched the sun set over the glorious scenery while eating hummus and sipping the creamy-white liquor from plastic cups. My friend told me about a French girl who had lived with him in his cave for a few weeks. She wanted him to come back and live in France with her, but this was something he could not do. "Petra is my home, it is beautiful and I don't want to leave. I don't want to live in a house. Besides, there are many forms to fill out and I cannot read."
Abdul decided that we should go to the Bedouin village on the other side of Petra. This resulted in some embarrasingly unsteady walking across the rocks to the road. The town we arrived at seemed to me like something out of a fable. Male and female Bedouin covered the unlit streets, some on horses, some on foot and a few in vehicles. I followed closely behind Mr William and Abdul, and quickly became the town spectacle. "Welcome," they invariably told me, "You are staying in the village or in the cave?" Our party grew again as friends of Abdul joined us to discretely sip Arak out of view of the more pious elders.
I was somewhat surprised when I made it to Abdul's cave without falling over. We entered his home through a metal door in the rock, installed by the resident. The surprisingly large room was furnished in typical Arab fashion with striped, squat sofas lining the walls. "Make yourself at home." I stared up at the at the swirling emerald green patterns on the ceiling, listening to the chatter of the young men, and sipped Arak until I fell into a deep, blissful slumber.
I had many more encounters over the next couple with these beautiful, hospitable people but I will not write them here. Suffice it to say that their kindness and love for their landscape, be it in the desert or in the mountains, is imperforate in its purity.
Comments
Post a Comment