This trip requires a bit of context. Long-suffering readers will remember Alex from our Japanese adventures, where we visited Shinto shrines, wandered through whispering forests of bamboo, relaxed in onsen and discovered okonomiyaki. For the past month, Alex has been working at Weizmann Institute in Tel Aviv as part of her PhD. Not one to miss an opportunity, I promptly booked a flight, coordinating with Richard (AKA Ricardo), her boyfriend. Third-wheeling is a technique I refined last year in Portugal, so I didn’t have any reservations about inflicting my presence on the happy couple. I’m sure if Alex or Richard had had such reservations, these would have been voiced before now.
Richard and I got the train to Luton (my favourite airport) on Thursday morning, and after a briefish flight (curtailed by an hour due to fortuitous tailwinds), we arrived in Tel Aviv. We caught a train to Ha’Hagana station, and then somewhat apprehensively began to navigate to our hostel. We weren’t staying in the centre of town, but instead found ourselves in an industrial yet ‘hipster’ suburb – maybe something like Hackney. Compact Arabic supermarkets jostled for place next to late-night bars and disused furniture shops. We followed a streaming dual carriageway until it became a dark alley, and knocked on the inconspicuous door that represented our hostel. Warmly welcomed with a smile and a happy hour, we quickly settled in, grabbed some food, and settled into our bunks.
The following morning, we retraced our steps to the bus station, where on a specified corner we met our mutual friend. An armed guard eyed us up suspiciously as we loitered, tapping out a rhythm on the machine gun slung over her arm. Alex wheeled around the corner, and with our trio complete, we traipsed into the multistorey bus station, loaded up on provisions, and boarded a bus to Eilat.
During five hours of moderate doazage, we entered a surreal martian dreamscape. A barren expanse extended as far as we could see out of the window, up to the tessellated ridges of a reclining dragon. Alien rock formations leered at us as we drew further and further south, until we reached the abrasive seaside resort of Eilat. We promptly jumped in a taxi (with the assistance of Alex’s excellent bartering), which drove us five minutes down the road to the border.
My first land border crossing in a good few years was more painless than we could have hoped. There were no queues on the Israeli side, and the only minor drama on the Jordanian side was that the guard stamped Alex’s entrance card with the wrong date, and had to change it. We got a taxi to the town of Aqaba, where we dumped our belongings at a hotel before racing to the beach to catch the last glimmers of sunlight as it set over the Red Sea.
The beach was awash with pockets of local families; children splashing in the waves, women laughing at jokes with friends, and men serenely smoking shisha. Children took a friendly interest in us, asking us to pose for photos. We gladly acquiesced, before returning to town for dinner.
The following morning we had yet another early start. We picked up some fresh falafel and hummus, then took a taxi to Petra. Under ordinary circumstances we would have taken a bus, however none were leaving for another three hours, and for the sake of a fiver we thought we would cut our losses. We jostled in the back seat as the driver wound higher and higher to 1,700 metres above sea-level, trying desperately not to get any oil from the hummus on his upholstery. We dropped off our bags, and then entered one of the new seven wonders of the world: Petra.
We followed a winding dry riverbed through a cleft in the sandstone, gazing up at the rippled layers of rock above us (whilst simultaneously trying to avoid galloping horsecarts and American tour groups). After twenty minutes or so the vista opened out into Petra’s iconic Treasury. The creamy colonades glowed in the morning sunlight, contrasting with the purest ocean of sky.
We followed the stream of people past various eroding tombs, before deciding to splinter off and climb some steps. The steps led us up to the top of the valley where, after a wrong turn, we found ourselves at the High Place of Sacrifice, where ancient Nabataeans would make offerings to forgotten gods. We then followed the Wadi Farasa trail, where we stopped to finish our hummus quietly under a tree. A local cat became very interested in us, and lapped up our water with inefficient ferocity. We carried on past the Garden Tomb and the Soldier’s Tomb, absorbing the peace and silence of the landscape, broken only by bleating sheep and barking dogs. Eventually we came out by Qasr al-Bint – a freestanding temple on the edge of the basin. Its magnitude shrunk us into inconsequential nothings, and made us wonder at the craftsmanship of the ancient people who had built it, as well as their tenacity and ambition. We followed the main path back to the entrance, where we sipped on pomegranate juice before admitting exhaustion, and getting a taxi to the Bedouin camp where we were spending the night.
The camp was comprised of a shingle path which was bordered by well-clad tents. As the sun crept behind the mountains, the camp fell into a dusky shadow, illuminated by flickering lights set in recesses in the rock above and haphazard stars in the sky. We settled by the fire, drank more sweet sage tea (similar to its Moroccan counterpart) than my dentist would thank me for, and after a Bedouin feast, crawled under the four blankets heaped on our beds.
After a leisurely breakfast we headed back to Petra for a second day of exploration. Having finally got our bearings, we powered down the trail up towards the monastery. After a steep climb up sandy steps we emerged into a dusty clearing. The monastery was the most impressive thing we had seen so far; more magnificent than the Treasury, and quieter – most of the crowds were either still climbing, or had decided to give it a miss. We lingered for a couple of hours enjoying the peace, before making the descent.
We then circled round the Royal Tombs and climbed up to a vantage point overlooking the Treasury. A pregnant cat called Monica sniffed our bags in the hope for some food, but her owner said she’d had sardines for breakfast so was probably fine. We made our final journey down the main trail, where we met an off-duty guide called Mohammed, who offered us a more personal perspective on the tiny part of the country we’ve been exploring. We then parted ways and made our way back to the camp.
Petra has been a mesmerising place. I thought that I’d get a bit bored looking at old hewn rock, but the grandeur of the structures make it truly deserving of its status as a Wonder. Alex, Richard and I are well matched in pace, energy and bant levels, so it’s been an entirely perfect exploratory experience. I’m connected with my inner-Indiana, and can’t wait for the rest of our adventures to unfold.
nativeoyster 