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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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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.
