“Thank You, Welcome to Jordan.”
I must have heard that phrase a dozen times a day while in Jordan, whether in taxis, restaurants, or buying souvenirs. The Jordanians are without question the most hospitable people on the planet, which is why I quickly realized what the travel guides meant when they said that I could walk anywhere in Jordan without fear and in confidence…which is why I decided that I was going to see Petra one way or another, even if I had to go it alone.
Indeed, it did look like would have to go it alone. Ira (voice), Bruce (cello), and John Cramer (violin) all were headed to the Dead Sea on our one day off from teaching in the American Voices workshop (Fridays are holy days in the Middle East). Marc (violin) needed to chill at the ranch, and John Ferguson had a date with the local TV folks for interviews (grandma used to say that it is hell to be popular). I had no idea what the few others had yet planned. Regrettably, I scarcely saw Michael and Rick (Broadway and Dance) since they were working at another venue and not at the Cultural Center.
So, on Wednesday I began looking for ways to get to Petra by taxi. My first quote was from the hotel front desk, for $150 dollars. This would include the three-hour trip there and back, and 7 hours to look around. This seemed like quite a deal for someone who can barely get from airports to a hotel in most cities for less than $50 bucks. And this quote was for 6 hours of driving through the desert!
By early Thursday I had secured a quote from a taxi for $100 dollars. Wow, things were looking up! Then, the night before the excursion, I had discovered the “Jet” bus service (thanks to Omar, my favorite front desk clerk), which would also get me there and back with 7 hours to explore, but for a mere $20 US dollars. That was it. I was going to Petra, and on the cheap!
As fate would have it (and I do mean fate), the Lebanese students — affectionately known as my “Groupies”, which include Sarah, Pascale (“mom”), Tony (“Toooony”) and Joe — decided that they would join me. Then, at the 11th hour, American Voices instructor Greg (Viola) decided he would also opt for Petra instead of the Dead Sea. (The Dead Sea was only a 45-minute drive from our hotel, and we still had hopes of getting out there after work later in the week.) It looked to be the perfect getaway.
Mistake number one: Don’t stay up too late the night before the trip.
I woke up Friday morning after a short 4 hours of sleep, and headed with the kiddos to the jet bus station. No problem, I was too jazzed to even notice being tired.
Mistake number two: Don’t skip breakfast before you go to Petra.
Since the hotel restaurant didn’t open until 7am, I figured I would not worry about breakfast. After all, I rarely eat breakfast in the States, and had done so only in Jordan since it was so convenient, and lunches usually consisted of lots of bread and fries…with perhaps a touch of meat thrown in for symbolic reasons. (They wanted it to appear that we were eating sandwiches.)
Once at the bus station, Rania (my prize student and American Voices volunteer) surprised us by showing up, and the seven of us were on our way at 6:30 am.
.
The bus stopped at “Midway Castle”, a chance for snack and souvenirs. These boys were enjoying a nice game of soccer in the parking lot.
.
By 9:30, it was clear that we were nearing Petra due to the drastic changes in terrain.
.
The approach to Petra.
.
Mistake number three: Don’t skip a real lunch.
Thankfully, my Lebanese Groupies had the time and foresight to bring some naan bread and cheese. I had figured that there would be places to get something to eat at the entrance of Petra. However, there were only a few stands selling snackity items, but nothing with real substance. I figured we wouldn’t be doing anything so strenuous anyways, so it didn’t bother me at that point. We hung out under a tree, and put on suntan lotion and ate some of the snacks.
.
The third of the series of “Indiana Jones” movies was filmed at Petra.
.
As we stood in line to buy tickets for entering the park, I marveled at the cost structure. If you are Arab, you pay one Dinar. If you are not Arab, you pay 50 Dinar ($70 US dollars). I wasn’t amused, as I saw a metal plate on the side of one of the information booths that read: “USAID”. But, I was going to see Petra regardless of the apparent injustice. There would always be time to pester my Senators when I got home.
As we began our trek, it didn’t take long to see the first evidence of the ancient civilization that once thrived here. Petra is peppered with tombs, which were dug into the rocks. I could only imagine how much time and effort just one of these tombs must have taken to prepare. Surely it gave a different perspective to the phrase, “digging your own grave.”
.
One of the first tombs along the trail to the “Treasury”.
.
Frequently, we were approached by camel, donkey, and horse and cart drivers soliciting us to buy rides to the main attraction, the “Treasury”, and beyond. 5 Dinar was the going rate for the trip to the Treasury (Interestingly, it would become 7 Dinar on the way back). There was no way that I was going to plop myself on one of those little donkeys. The sight made it pretty easy to spot the likely Americans, as well.
.
I did not take this particular picture, but I could have. USA…USA!!!
.
Just as with dog and cat owners in the West, they say that after a time camel owners begin to resemble their camels. Matching smiles?
.
Mistake number 4: Ok, in the end, it may be ok to conserve a little energy and to accept a little help up from the “staff”.
As we entered the Siq (“the shaft”) the signs read that we had a 2 km walk ahead of us to reach the Treasury. But, the sight was so spectacular that the trip seemed to go by in seconds. Petra is a protected city. The only practical way in is through the Siq. The Nabataeans created an elaborate hydraulic system in order to get water into the city. They also sold the extra water to travelers along the spice routes nearby. Water was brought into the city via gutters carved along the Siq from aquifers just outside the city.
.
The “Siq” (The Shaft). Note the water gutters carved along each wall.
.
Another view of the “Siq”. Again, note the gutters for water along the walls.
I would learn the hard way that the horse carts aren’t such a bad idea.
.
The cats at Petra find a way.
.
I happened to glance up just as a bit of the Treasury could be seen through the end of the Siq. I began filming from this point. Few experiences have taken my breath away like my approach to the Treasury.
.
The detail still visible in the Treasury is amazing. This was built 2000 years ago.
.
A closer view of the detail of the Treasury.
.
Mistake number 5: If you are going to continue past the Treasury, plan ahead.
The Monastery sits atop the highest point in Petra. From one side of the mountain, you can view the Rift Valley, the spot where Moses pointed out the Promised Land. From the other side, one looks down onto a large portion of the city of Petra. (It is estimated that only one percent of the city has been excavated.) So, my “Groupies” and I did the calculations, and we felt that if we didn’t linger, we could just make it to the Monastery and get back to the bus by the 4:30 departure time.
Mistake number 6: If you are going to the Monastery, be in shape.
For the next several kilometers, the terrain was relatively flat, hindered mostly by the occasional sand we had to walk through, and the fact that the sun was beginning to take its toll. Though the air somehow felt cool, the direct sunlight warmed the skin… a strange sensation, really. Regardless, I still marveled at the sights.
.
A woman rests in the shade along the trail.
.
More tombs along the trail at Petra.
.
Joe and Tony took off for this temple. At first, I thought they had mistaken it for the Monastery.
.
I must get dropped by AT&T at least twice a day. Yet, Joe was getting good reception even out here.
.
Another cat climbing along the rocky ledges.
.
Thankfully, this part of the road was flat, though the sand sometimes made walking more difficult.
.
.
Looking back from where we came, this whole mountain range was carved with city dwellings.
.
I had heard about the steps up to the Monastery. All 900 of them. At this point, I have to admit that I was somewhat concerned that I spent too much of the year sitting on piano benches, and not enough time riding my bicycle. As Rania and I pondered our time constraints, we finally decided to make a go of it and head to the Monastery. At this point, Greg had already turned back, and the others had crept ahead. I had been worried about Greg (last year he seemed particularly sensitive to heat), so I was somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t be joining us on this part of the journey. Little did I know that he wasn’t the one for whom I should have been worried.
Mistake number 7: If you are going to the Monastery, make sure you have time, and do not hurry.
The trail up to the Monastery isn’t terribly exposed, but the cliffs along the trail are a reminder that nothing should be taken for granted. One wrong step and there will be no second chances. The thought of sitting up on a donkey seemed rather appalling, even if they are famous for their sure footing.
.
Rania and I try to decide if we can get up to the Monastery and back in time to catch the bus back home.
.
Along the trail, there was the occasional drink stand manned by Bedouins still living in the mountains, or the Bedouin women selling their crafted jewelry. (I would have loved more time to buy gifts. For 2 dollars one can buy a beautiful pendant, or ring.) The final drink stand again doubled the price of water for foreigners. This time, I let the sellers know of my displeasure. I could only imagine that I seemed polite next to what other passers buy might have expressed at this point of the journey.
.
Though he had one broken leg, this cat was eager to charge me double what the Arabs paid for bottled water. I had to resist breaking his other leg.
.
It was a struggle, but we made it to the Monastery. Interestingly, there were few other people around. Hmmm….
.
Standing in the doorway, I add a little perspective as to the size of the Monastery.
.
.
I figure that on the return trip I got within 300 yards of the park entrance. 300 yards, with 20 minutes to spare. Easy. Though I was “damaged”, I thought that I was just naturally fatigued. But, it was also clear that I was shutting down… fast. Suddenly, the horse drawn carts didn’t seem like such a bad idea. (I should have noticed that the locals were beginning to offer me free return trips on the donkeys to the parking lot. I figured that they were just looking for tips.)
Finally, I asked Rania to grab a cart. Screw it… I had earned the right to relax those last few yards, right?
As I waited in the shade behind a rock, I began to feel strange. Then, I tried to stand up, and whoop…nope. Have a seat, Bradley.
The cart didn’t come, and I was really worried about holding everybody up from the bus. So, I took an offer for a horse. Note to self…it takes as much energy to stay on a horse as it does to walk. I figure we made it about 5 steps. I had to get down.
The next sound I heard was an ambulance siren. I was really upset at the thought that it was for me. Greg (who had made it to the Monastery after all… by wisely taking a donkey) and the rest of the gang were already at the bus, joking that the ambulance was probably for me. They didn’t yet realize that it was. I was still in denial. However, by the time I got into the ambulance I knew that I was in some trouble.
The ambulance attendants asked me to sit down so they could take my blood pressure. Immediately, they became worried, and Sarah was particularly insistent that I needed to go the hospital. My blood pressure had cratered, and the alarm was going off of the pressure meter.
You remember my post about Bruce and the discussion over Pepsi or Pepsi light? Well, the next 10 minutes were similar, as the attendants debated with each other (and my Groupies) as to whether I needed rest or a hospital. One of the attendants was sitting on the edge of the portable bed generally reserved for patients to lay on. As I felt myself slipping, I said that I needed to lay down…fast. The attendant broke off from his conversation with the Groupies long enough to say, “just a minute.” I think the last bit of energy I mustered was spent politely removing him from that position.
As I lay there, it suddenly dawned on me that heat was the issue. (Yes, I can be slow) Yet, there was no I-V, my hat was still on, and my shoes were still on. So, once I realized what I needed, I turned to Rania and whispered…”water….forehead…shoes.”
Sarah made a dash for juice, and Rania sponged my head. As the attendants explained to everyone that I should just rest there, Sarah returned with juice and asked, “so what happens to him during this ‘rest’?” At that point, it was a mad dash through the mountains to the nearest hospital. They never even strapped me into the bed. It was all I could do not to roll off the cart. I didn’t see stars, but dollar signs, as I imagined what the bill was going to be for this experience. I figured foreigners were likely to get charged double, or worse. Hey, it worked for everything else, why not medical care? At the lowest point, I remember actually saying my goodbyes. This was it…I was going to snuff it in Jordan without a chance to say goodbye to my family or friends.
As the cool air of the hospital (a clinic, really) washed over me, I began to feel a bit better. The doctor saw me, and immediately said, “heat stroke.” It was hard to walk, but once my vital signs were stable I was dismissed (too soon). In their usual helpful manner, the Jordanians had already arranged another bus, which was waiting a few miles below. Though I was gouged by the taxi driver for the trip to that bus (for 20 dollars…a fair price had we been in America), I didn’t argue, and managed to stumble onto the bus for the 3 hours trip home.
This should have been the end of this story, except that the air conditioner on the bus went out about half way back, and for some reason I began to crash again. The girls were quite worried, as was I. Rania once again sponged my head, and Pascale (affectionately known as “mom”) did some sort of “reflexology” she learned from girl scouts on my hand. Sarah fanned me, and gave me juice. In all, I credit the girls for doing as well as I did. They are extraordinary individuals.
Rania’s father is a prominent pediatric surgeon in Amman, and he met us at the station, insisting that I go to their flat so he could check me out. After some rest, and delicious pasta Rania’s mother made (for which I still need the recipe!), I was beginning to feel better. After some time, I was taken back to the hotel, where Bruce — who had gotten word of my demise — was pacing “like a cat looking for his master.”
In the end, the trip was certainly worth it…for me, anyway. And the bill for the experience? Zero…not one Dinar. When I had handed the hospital attendants my insurance card their only concern was how to spell my name. When I asked the hospital folks why they weren’t charging me, their response was, “It is our duty.”
And of all the things I will likely remember about this adventure — the Treasury…the Monastery view…the incredible help of friends — perhaps the most memorable will be something the ambulance driver said as I exited the hospital, exhausted, and totally spent.
As I stumbled out to get into the taxi the hospital staff had arranged, the ambulance driver shook my hand and said:
“Thank You, Welcome to Jordan.”
.
Ya’ll come back now, ya hear!
