Jordan: The Dead Sea

The Dead Sea is surely the place all lifeguards aspire to a posting at; Eurotrash in skimpy swimwear and a straight up inability to sink. If you drown here, it's because you're trying. Of course, the harsh part of this reality is the middle aged, over weight, ghost white Russkis in speedos whose behaviour is akin to kindergartners in a playground... but that can be kind of funny too.

Good...

... good god.

It's a strange sensation, bobbing around in water that seems to want to foist you out. In five feet of water it was a struggle to put any part of my foot down, the second my center of gravity moved ever so slightly outside of straight down I would tumble up, rolling forwards or backwards depending on which direction I lost my balance.

I need a newspaper.

The hotels and government have the racket here sussed. 20JD is the starting price for access to a developed beach. It goes as high as 100JD (roughly $200AUD). The undeveloped beaches are accessible but come with no fresh water, something you need for a shower later. Paying somewhere proximal to forty dollars to go to the beach is something a little bizarre for me, and to also have access to three decadent pools atop the shore seemed a little... ridiculous? Whatever the case, it's very much the norm here.

Halite crystals are washed up on the shore, beds of halite are apparent as you walk out, indicating past shorelines and the retreating nature of the Dead Sea. It's super saturated salt water and it sets all my mosquito bites on my legs and arms absolutely alight. Once out of the water it cakes all over and after a brief time feels really quite terrible, like you're being eaten. I guess that's where people get touched up by the masseurs with the organic mud... but instead I had my 20JD shower.

In all honesty, it was more interesting driving along the coast and just looking at the cliffs from within the rift, so that's what we did. Went a little way past Wadi Mujib (a freshwater gorge that feeds into the Dead Sea). Checked out some bedding in the cliff faces then turned around and did it all over again looking the other way...

Still hazy!

... much better than being eaten alive and dried out by salt!

Jordan: Madaba and Mt Nebo

Madaba is a town to the east of the Dead Sea, perched atop the rift. It's most famous for its mosaic map, located in a Greek Orthodox Church of St George (seems a little multicultural, doesn't it?). The mosaic depicts the Middle East as it was in the sixth century and originally containing some two million pieces covering about 140m^2, I walked straight past it, remarking to myself, "why the fuck is that area roped off?" as I wandered toward the altar of the church.

Yes, I'm an idiot.

Why rope off an area to the side of the Church? It makes no sense!

In my scant defense, there are many mosaics depicting religious icons and warriors all over the Church walls and pillars that being at eye level, caught my attention initially.

Oooh! Pretty, but not the mosaics I'm looking for.

The map - which is indeed behind the roped off area - has been proven to be very accurate. Archaeologists have used it to locate previously undiscovered ruins in the Middle East, a fact that baffles me a little. How can towns, temples and monuments just pass out of memory in an area that has been continuously inhabited for thousands upon thousands of years?

The answer is apparently earthquakes and persecution, but this still puzzles me a bit.

Oh, that's why it was roped off, to stop idiots like me walking all over it while looking for it.

Mt Nebo is just to the west of Madaba, overlooking the rift that the Dead Sea is in. Apparently it affords views of the promised land; all I saw was haze. Moses, aged 120, presumably got to see it all (and then died before climbing down). On a clear day it's possible to see beyond the Dead Sea all the way to Jerusalem and Jericho on the West Bank.

Mt Nebo has more mosaics and a vantage point that shows dozens of switchbacks down into the rift, ordinarily the motorcyclist in me would be excited to see such a road, but given the state of their highways, this was most certainly another perilous trap.

It's hard not to get the impression that this is really just a tourist stop for people most interested in following in the footsteps of prophets...

What a wonderful view of... haze.

Jordan: Petra.

There is more to Petra than a Treasury

Forget Emmet from the Lego Movie, the Nabataeans are the master builders. Petra was built – perhaps the more appropriate term is carved – about two thousand years ago and fell to the Romans in the first century. Never mind that though, it’s also the setting for the climax of probably the greatest movie trilogy of all time.

I found myself in Petra by a bit of an unexpected change of plans. Initially set on teasing myself by intending to leave it until last, the proprietor at Bdewei informed me late one night that the following day he’d be driving to Petra on business and that for a share of the gas money, he’d take me and sort out some complimentary accommodation. Then, he’d bring me back to Amman where I could resume doing all the things I was going to be doing instead of immediately going to Petra. This was a pretty great deal.

That said, my interactions with Farajat to that point had largely been less than favourable. He’s terribly chauvinistic, lying comes to him as readily as breathing and he craves the centre of attention. His idea of conversation is recounting all the different girls he’d slept with and just generally objectifying women in a manner that would reduce the UWA Arts Union to rank amateurs by way of comparison. Plus his staff hate him. So why agree to spending six hours in a car with him?

Just curious, I guess.

On arriving at the town of Petra, we go to a hotel, he lets himself in, goes behind the counter and grabs some keys to a room saying it will be fine. I leave my stuff there and we depart, for Petra. Nothing suss.

It’s worth mentioning that the ticketing at Petra is interestingly perverse. For one day you pay $100. A two day ticket is $110. Three days and beyond is $120. I jump on the two day ticket and negotiate the bazaar by ignoring everyone and head for the entry gates. Once through, the first thing anyone says to me – maybe five steps in – is, “hey! Mister Indiana Jones!”

This is definitely worthy of indulgence.

Mohammed is a Beduoin and leases out his horse, Angela, for rides to the Siq (gorge leading to the treasury). She’s not the fittest looking filly but stood next to the competition, seems to be doing alright for herself. We talk a little about my plans; I explained my intent to pick low hanging fruit all day and then consider jellied legs, septic blisters and other hiking treats on the second day. I make to leave him, telling him to look out for me the following day where I’d give some serious consideration to his guidance on trails and riding but before I get too far away he undercuts everyone else by miles at 1 dinar for a ride to the mouth of the Siq.

It seems a good bit of business and a fair reward for the cultural reference.

The Siq is how most tourists come to make their way into Petra. It winds sinuously – and in places very narrowly – to the Treasury, a landmark made iconic by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. The Siq alone is pretty spectacular, the gorge was formed by the rifting of the sandstone range. Anywhere else in the world and this little stretch of the legs would be a noteworthy tourist attraction in and of itself. The walk isn’t terribly long – maybe three kilometres – but it’s just long and pretty enough that you begin to forget that this is the driveway, not the reason.

That reason sneaks up on you. Vaguely aware that around one of the many bends you are afforded a fleeting glimpse of the columns and entrance to the Treasury, each turn leading to this view feels like unwrapping a birthday present only to find another layer of wrapping… except it’s much less frustrating, possibly owing to the quality of the geology. When this glimpse arrives – after one of the narrowest sections – whatever thoughts and preconceptions you may have had about the Treasury are completely recast; it’s very big, ornate and in immaculate condition. As you file into the clearing in front of the Treasury it’s hard not to appreciate the sheer audacity of chiseling something like this out of a wall of rock…

… twice.

I think everyone takes this photo. I'm not too bothered by that.

Less well known is a second carving, larger and in all honesty probably more impressive, at the other end of the wadi atop cliffs. Known as the Monastery, it’s nearly identical only much, much larger but ridiculously remote. Up hundreds and hundreds of stairs carved out of the sides of mountains and cliffs, this is not low hanging fruit. Listening to fat people bleat and bluster about the difficulty of the climb quickly became an early forerunner for the best unexpected bonus of the day.

The Monastery; inconveniently located atop cliffs.

Between these two carvings are several kilometres of smaller but still remarkable tombs and carvings throughout the wadi. Stretching a considerable portion of this length is a colonnaded road that serves as a reminder of its once Roman occupation. Before seeing any of this it was genuinely hard to imagine tens of thousands of people living in a canyon with glorified caves for homes… but now it just seems pretty super.

Royal Tombs across the valley.

 

For what it’s worth, the winner of unexpected bonus of the first day is shared by two vile, fat, middle aged American women who engaged in a shrieking match and then some good old fashioned argie-bargie (they stopped short of AFL styled jumper punches, shame). All this over who was next in line for a horse drawn carriage out through the Siq. It’s worth noting that those horse drawn carriages are reserved for the old or infirm and that the Siq is an easy walk through a well sheltered and cool gorge.

I do love those Americans.

With no low hanging fruit left to pick (indeed, even some of the harder stuff disappeared with my trip to the Monastery), the second day became devoted to exploring the trails over the top of the gorges. For this, a guide is required. Mohammed was quick to locate me as I came through the gate whereupon I honoured his seeking me out by engaging his services as a guide. This is where travelling solo absolutely falls down. I alone pay for his time, instead of it being split between a small group. Owing to this, I bargain fiercely, down to a point where I’d refuse me safe in the knowledge that I could run Angela back and forth over three hours and make more. Irrespective of that, the final price still tickles the wallet more than I would really like. Oh well. It’s inescapable.

The trail begins before the Siq, is hard work, practically invisible to me and frequently treacherous. One scramble takes you up thirty or so metres over small loose rocks that makes a mockery of any angle of repose I’d ever seen before and thus is clearly a devilish trap. A slip or misstep here would give you a rapid descent down whatever you’d already scaled before slipping over the edge and plummeting past the face of the Treasury, down some seventy metres before presumably flattening a small tour group. This on tired, groggy legs after having already climbed to the top of the other side of the gorge had me running Admiral Ackbar’s one meaningful line in Return of the Jedi over and over in my head to my scarce amusement.

That said, the view looking down to the Treasury is incredible.

As good a spot as any to have a cup of tea.

After negotiating the loose rocks and ascending to the top, Mohammed leaves me after three and a bit hours of “guidance”, probably realising that this was not his best money making venture. I tipped him an extra 5 dinar (~$10), he asks for more, “for Angela.” It’s probably a fair request but I say no, saying that if she were here I’d gladly give it directly to her. He sees the funny side and leaves, giving me directions to A High Place of Sacrifice.

You have to hand it to Jordanians – or the Nabataeans if it was their name initially – A High Place of Sacrifice says everything it needs to. It is very high and there is an altar atop it that even has plumbing for blood from sacrifices to funnel away and pool elsewhere. What the name omits is that the views here are spectacular. Affording uninterrupted views of Wadi Musa, the scale of Petra unfolds and wows you all over again. From the Monastery perched atop the next mountain range, down that to the ruins of a Roman cathedral, the colonnaded path across the Wadi to the royal tombs overlooking the auditorium and dwellings before the canyon narrows and winds to the Treasury. It’s hard to oversell just how incredible – and audacious – the whole area is, nevermind just the Treasury.

The Treasury.

It’s an absolute crime that so many tour groups walk the Siq, look at the Treasury and then walk back. Heaven forbid anyone do anything adventurous while on holiday.

Do this. Just do this.

Not Angela, not impressed either.

Jordan: Jerash; The Temple of Artemis, Temple of Zeus and Hadrean's Arch

View from Jerash Hippodrome, looking up to the Temple of Artemis

In Sid Meier's Civilisation V – a game that has probably started as many arguments at the Clam Pitt as it has finished – there is an achievement for the civilisation that builds the Temple of Artemis and the Temple of Zeus in the same city.

Now I know why that is; they’re both in Jerash.

 

Hadrean's Arch welcomes you to another world.

Walking through Hadrean’s Arch – an impressive monument in itself – the Temple of Artemis is visible in the distance atop a small hill, above a columned parade linking it to a paved circle in the midground. In the foreground on the left is a well preserved hippodrome where gladiators fought and chariots raced. The Temple of Zeus is obscured by this, but overlooks the paved circle atop a different hill. 

A thriving member of the Roman Decapolis (ten reasonably autonomous middle eastern Roman city states 2000 years ago), Jerash fell into ruin in the 8th century after a series of earthquakes. In spite of this, it is broadly considered to be the best preserved Roman city outside of Rome. Allegedly, Crusaders used the Temple of Artemis as a fort at one stage, most likely because it met their exacting requirements of four-ish walls and is notionally on top of a hill. They clearly weren't that fussed by the other taller hills immediately beside it.

Temple of Artemis

Were it not for the conspicuous bins, lights and signs it would be completely otherworldly. The compound is about four kilometres long and maybe half as wide, taking a few hours to explore on foot.

Frankly, it’s fucking awesome.

Within the compound there are mostly intact auditoriums, ruins of cathedrals, the ancient colonnades are incredible and each of the major temples – Artemis and Zeus – are very well preserved. Not unlike Hongcun or Xidi in China walking through here commands considering life in another time, although this takes you back a further millennium.

The Temple of Zeus also would have made an adequate fort!

Jordan: Amman Citadel and Roman Theatre

For a purportedly ancient city, Amman has very little in terms of ancient ruins preserved, with exception given to the Roman Theatre downtown and the citadel, atop one of the hills adjacent to the down town area. Entrance to these two places is 1JD each – approximately $2 – and there are museums attached to both.

The theatre is easy to find, ancient Roman columns line the walkway in front of it, something that I noticed ahead of lifting my gaze a touch and seeing a very large, stone auditorium built into the side of a very large hill. The rake of the steps is fierce and the seats catch most of the afternoon sun… it can’t be terribly pleasant in the height of summer. Some of the theatre has been a little unfaithfully restored but it’s hardly to the detriment of the overall imposing nature of the venue.

Roman Theatre, looking across the pit.

Roman Theatre, looking down from one of the first class sections. Amman is in the background, the Citadel is atop that hill in the background.

The citadel is a different beast. Given the mazey nature of the hillside streets here, I deferred to a taxi to take me to the top. Some laziness may have also been involved. Abdul, the cabbie, was keen to drum up repeat business and fed me his number rather quickly. His English is passable and driving is less suicidal than most so I pocketed it without telling too many outright lies about his chances at winning a call up.

View from the Citadel. The flag mast pictured is about 120m tall, the flag is about 30m long. It is apparently the largest flag on the planet.

The citadel is essentially an old fort with the ruins of the Temple of Hercules and a mosque within the ruins of the compound. The temple is in poor shape; it’s basically half a wall, a few standing columns and a few more that have toppled and now serve as good benches to sit on while changing a camera lens.

Temple of Hercules (what's left of it, anyway)

And there’s an elbow.

All that remains of the statue of Hercules is an elbow and what might be a fingernail. The fingernail is about the size of my head. Allegedly, the statue stood at approximately 16m.

… that’s a lot of Kevin Sorbo.

The mosque and the ruins around it are much more intact and make for a curious juxtaposition with Amman for a backdrop. The Temple of Hercules, dilapidated as it is sounds a little like a letdown. It most certainly isn’t, but it is really just an appetiser.

Citadel Mosque

Jordan: Hiba; Feigned Ignorance, Islam and a Flower

Hiba is Mikie's niece and at one point after dinner (and before her brother's dry wretching...) pulled me aside to show me her garden. Predominantly different coloured roses, it was clinically maintained and when put into context with the maze and mess that Amman is; it was very ordered and quite pretty.

While there, conversation drifted around for a bit - mostly concerned with our respective gardens (I described mine as "mostly dead with a few chilli plants that taste like hate") - until I felt that she was comfortable enough with me to talk about something I really wanted to know more about; Islam.

It never quite got there. In response to my feigning absolute ignorance she explained that there was a prophet - Mohammed - and that she prayed to Allah. At that there was a natural pause that led to my asking why she prayed and what she prayed for?

"It makes me happy. It's uplifting, I pray to say thanks to Allah for everything in my life. If he gives me good things, I say thank you. If he gives me bad things, I say thank you. I pray because I know he can see and hear me."

It hung in the air for a little while as I thought about her response. On the one hand, I was envious, jealous even, that she had ready access to something that clearly made her happy and gave her purpose. On the other hand, I was upset by her seemingly implicit rejection of self determination; that ultimately she was not responsible for the things in her life.

I explained that prayer - at least among many of my friends - was much less sincere and generally involved wanting or needing something that was altogether unlikely and that thanks was instead given to friends or family, something that I thought I did in a pretty hit or miss manner.

She smiled and gave me a pink rose.

I thanked her.

Jordan: Mikie the Anti-Hero

Last week, Mikie took me to a duty free alcohol shop whereupon he imposed a limit on how much I could buy so that he could buy exactly what he wanted; a bottle of whiskey. Subsequent to this, Mikey was fired after a whiskey fuelled argument and later rampage on the rooftop while preparing a barbecue for staff and guests. This made things a little awkward for me as I'd hired him for three days of driving and guiding around and out of Amman.

Somehow, he earned a reprieve the following day and took me to Jerash. Over the course of the day, his position at the hostel became virtually assured in the short term as the other two staff members walked out; Daniel the Spaniard just straight out disappeared while Halem cited family issues and gave two days notice.

Mikie is morally ambiguous and has a fine sense of unintentional dramatic irony; while decrying men who treat their spouses like shit and cheat on them, he paused mid sentence to cat call a white girl at a roundabout we were waiting at.

Understandably, she flipped us off.

This has since become a regular occurrence.

After failing to marry Halem off to me, he then insisted that I go with him to his sister's house to meet his niece, "long black hair, big dark eyes, the most beautiful girl in Jordan... And a virgin too!" It was important to him that I have a family in Jordan and so we went to their house with barbecue meats for all and a bottle of liquor for his nephew, something that Mikie's sister expressly forbids.

On the one hand there is a flourish of goodwill, meanwhile the other is taking potshots at his feet.

His nephew, no doubt a future Rhodes scholar, necks the bottle in one go - with some rapidity too - and so begins a ticking time bomb.

We excused ourselves as his nephew's symptoms went from hiccuping to dry wretching, all a beautiful prelude to a date with a bucket or your head in the toilet.

Mikie the antihero; morally ambiguous to chaotic, self sabotaging, generous to a fault and very peculiar.

Jordan: Drinking Alone; live free or die, Batman.

I met Chris and Lucy because I was eavesdropping. Long ago I made peace with drinking alone while traveling. In fact, I believe it's actually a good and completely fair activity; alone - at least initially - you are more socially agile and much less intimidating to strangers. That makes you very easy to engage with, thus making it easier to make friends on the run.

Turns out Chris and Lucy are aid workers from Britain whose jobs are predominantly involved with Syrian refugee camps in the north of Jordan. Chris spent some time telling me about how he dodged skunk water while masquerading as a Palestinian in Israel (just to see what it was like) while Lucy went to great pains to assert that her vagina was not an inhibitor for football knowledge and roundly savaged the both of us for not realising that Crystal Palace are in the Premier League.

Decamping from some bar to some rooftop with a view of the city, some American English teachers and a Swiss backpacker snowballed to our cause. I was briefly viewed by the Americans as some sort of traveling genius for responding to their hailing from New Hampshire with, "live free or die, eh?", I got the Brits' details on the back of a Boxing Day Ashes ticket that was the only bit of paper in my bag (a WONDERFUL coincidence that paid dividends through Lucy's potty mouth) and then somewhere between there and later I was locked out of my hostel because I outlasted a perversely early curfew.

... in unrelated news, I really enjoyed reading Batman comics on the plane the other day. Frank Miller is an inspirational story teller.

Jordan: Welcome to Amman

So begins what Cliff has been referring to as "Cam's Crusades".

My track record of dodgy taxi rides in foreign countries has probably come to a screeching halt here. I had - ahead of time - organised to get picked up by a driver from the hostel I'm staying at. On arrival he was not there and after contacting the hostel via Jordan's very helpful tourist desk, I was informed that he had most likely crashed and that I should get an ordinary taxi instead.

I am genuinely unsure of what to make of this, but I got to my hostel without incident (well, there was a car going the wrong way down an offramp endeavouring to get back onto the highway but I am pretty used to that now, having once been that guy) and at a price that wasn't exorbitant.

I'd mentally handed this day over to just plodding around and nursing a night of no sleep and so it came as a small surprise that I've been reasonably active in my meandering due to a welcomed absence of jet lag. Amman - today at least - is a little bizarre. I've been informed that Friday is a holiday (they mean to say weekend, I think) and that is why it is so quiet and lots of places are shut. That said, vendors are still about and there are certainly people around.

Those people are mostly men.

Actually, on the street you really have to look hard to find women. The ones you do find are either very conservatively dressed or tourists. There seems to be a small disconnect here; the vendors sell a lot of very intricate, colourful and straight up beautiful women's garments... But no one seems to be wearing it.

Oh well.

In my meanderings I stumbled upon the King Hussein Mosque in downtown Amman. A crowd was gathering in front of it. That crowd grew and overflowed onto the roads around it. Police blocked off the roads, diverting traffic. The crowd lined up, threw down mats and then began praying, repeating words coming from speakers and megaphones in front of the mosque and on the corners of the streets. The throng move and pray as one, ages five to prehistoric. It runs perfectly and for fifteen minutes or so. Then, everything goes back to how it was before.

It's surreal.

In cafes, Turkish coffee and shisha are standard fare. The middle eastern soundtrack playing in these venues only becomes conspicuous when it makes way to prayers and hymns coming from the megaphones on the street. This time, the cafe goers and pedestrians take it in the stride.

The cafe music is slow to restart, giving bubbling shisha water and foreign chatter an opportunity to occupy the soundscape in the interim.

This is curiously pleasant.