Travels in Jordan

MUCH IS MADE of the 'culture shock' experienced by uninitiated Westerners visiting a  Muslim country. And at first, the sight of a young woman covered from head to toe was a bit disconcerting – but really only because she’d just emerged from the depths of the Red Sea at the jetty at Aqaba thus clad She was further accessorised by oxygen tanks, weight belts and breathing apartatus. She stepped out of her flippers as out of slingbacks and strode off up the beach with her Saudi dive mates. Culture shock indeed.

We were not so skilled but our diving instructor perservered. Telling us snorkelling was but a visit to the zoo compared with the safari adventures of the scuba diver, he coaxed us to a depth where the sun danced on the sea bed and the fish were astoundingly plentiful – and breathtakingly multicoloured.

In Petra's ancient city

Close to the border with Saudi Arabia, Aqaba is a diver’s dream come true and, increasingly, a popular sun destination. It is also a busy market town with a thriving port developed along 18km of Red Sea coast obtained from the Saudis in exchange for a large tract of desert in the east.

Ancient-ruin buffs and religious enthusiasts can visit Jordan at any time and come away happy but increasingly so too can more seasonal sunseekers, eco tourists and those is search of outdoor adventure.

We passed three sunny days exploring a seeminly inexhaustable warren of trails and treks that criss-cross the ancient city of Petra and laughed when the man at the tea stall by the amphitheatre told us his donkey was predicting snow. Later that afternoon as we treked the backroad from the Jebel Madhbah High Place of Sacrifice above the magnificant Treasury cloud moved in, the air cooled and stone lions were shadowy, eerie figues in a gatheing mist through which we stumbled into the warm comfort of the  hammam. Next morning we took leave of the Petra Moon Hotel and headed out of town on the 6am bus as the first flurries of snow reached the northern fringes of Petra.

Our migration south did not impress the weather gods and a less-than-friendly sandstorm greeeted us at the desert in Wadi Rum. The sky was loaded a gun-metal grey and cold wind whipped sand in our faces. Off on the horizon a man tried, in vain, to shovel sand drifts off the tracks to allow a train to pass.

Camels in Wadi Rum

And so we fled south again, this time into the arms of the very hospitable people at the Movenpick on the corniche in the aforementioned Aqaba who, unphased by our arrival in their five-star lobby looking like we’d been pulled through a desert backwards, settled us into considerable comfort three days ahead of schedule. 

That evening, in the hotel bar we eavesdropped on young American cyclists trading survival tales of snow on the Desert Highway as they got quietly drunk and forgot to go to dinner.

Determined to walk in the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia we eventually dragged ourselves off the sunloungers and returned to the great expanse of Wadi Rum. From our Bedouin Whispers desert basecamp, in the shelter of a great sandstone cliff, we struck out on jeep and camel safaris. Wobbly legs and an uneasy stomach muttered darkly the answer to one of life’s great questions. Camels are known as ships of the desert because seasickness may be the reward for riding one.

In the evening we ate Bedouin fast food – chicken and veg cooked for four hours (rather than the usual eight) in hot stone and cinders – stared over oceans of wavy sand at magnificant sunsets, knocked back Bedouin whiskey (strong sweet tea), and feel asleep under the white light of a full moon in our Bedouin tent. After dark, the men of the camp brought out traditional musical instruments for a session around the big open fire at the centre of the communal tent.

Jabal Umm ad Dami is the highest mountain peak in Jordan. We reached it  after a two-hour jeep ride From the summit we looked out over the great sandy expanse of what for many Irish people today is the new promised land, Saudi Arabia, to the south and tracked a road as it snaked its way south from a border checkpoint. Until recently people living in this region paid little attention to the border, herding their sheep to grazing wherever they could find it.

Having watched the great resorts of Egypt and Israel colonise the opposite shores of the Red and Dead seas, Jordan is improving and growing its own resorts but for now, at least, still retains some of the old world charm of resort days past. 

The Dead Sea’s micro climate can offer near constant balmy conditions (and, they say, less UV danger) to those who want to do nothing more streneous than bob about in the manner of an angler’s float on water so saline if Jesus didn’t walk on it, he should have. We hobbled over rocks of crystalised salt to float on our backs reading the newspaper until hotel life guards decided we were crinkly enough and fished us out, forcing us indoors to treat ourselves to the Movenpick’s signature salt and mud scrubs.

However, when the man sporting an impressive grey beard, nice sunglasses, traditional full-length diswashah and red and white keffiyeh drove up in a battered white Toyota pickup we knew it was time to checkout. He hoisted our backpacks into the back, and off we headed in our Bedouuin taxi for the Dana Nature Reserve, where we spent a couple of days enjoying the excellent hikes in this beautiful protected area.

That's Saudi Arabi
 back there

Well before the paved road gave way to a rougher track it was clear we were in nomads’ land. Herds of camel sauntered about over acres of sand, goats and sheep skipped and trotted, and children played around the many tent settlements. A woman in traditional jilbab and hijab shepherding goats over a great flat expanse of sand and rock reminded us of Biblical times – until she fished in her pocket and brought out a smartphone.

While many young Bedouins are abandoning nomadic living to settle in government-provided villages, thousands of families still live in tents close-woven from goats hair by the women. A young university graduate working as a tourist guide at the Feynan Eco Lodge told us that though he lived in the village with his wife and baby, he still decamped to rejoin his parents and other family in the tents for the long, hot summers.

But long, hot days were not troubling us in the early, northern part of our trip which began with some unusually cool weather even for this end-of-winter season.

So it was on a lukewarm, if sunny, February afternoon, we found ourselves on the banks of the river Jordan, the site where John the Baptist baptised Jesus at our backs, a Jordanian soldier strapped to an automatic weapon by our side, and across the river now dammed to a much narrower existence, Christian pilgrims barefoot in little circles, arms raised to the sky, singing on land – controversial as you like – considered Arab or Jewish but certainly not Christian. That river bank is under Israeli control and we though we couldn’t see them were told armed soldiers were present there too.

Our Muslim guide was a treasure trove of cross-referenced religious scripts and between entreating us to stay on the path pointed to the many ironies of religious difference. But biblical referencing can be draining and Jordan river holy water secured, we returned to our taxi and headed on to sample the R&R promised at the Movenpick Dead Sea resort, where we were spoiled and pampered to within an inch of our proletariat lives.

The capital has bustling, unpretentious feel to it, but Amman is a thriving Middle Eastern city, rich in cafe culture and street life, and well worth a visit. Alcohol is available in Jordan– in many restaurants and hotels – but it was refreshing not to have it dominate every social interaction. In the cool of evening, friends, courting couples and families sit under trees in the park, in restaurants or streetside cafes or a bench near the mosque just to chat.

Much of the time we ate in the cheap-eat street cafes but in Amman treated ourselves to dinner at the Tannoureen restaurant. All around us tables brimmed with families and friends, reunions and Saturday night gatherings. Beside us, about a dozen women on a night out, all in traditional Middle Eastern dress, their meal finished, sat back and enjoyed the hooka pipes, sending the heady aroma of smokey mixed-fruit wafting towards our table. That, for two non-smokers, somehow marked the perfect end to a wonderful trip.