Petra by Day

We’ve changed hostels and are now ensconced at the place Jon originally found on the internet back in January and also recommended by Willem and Renne. It’s more central and with a great vibe, with lots of interesting guests. And the food is awesome, but all in good time: more about all that later!
Seeing Petra by night FIRST was probably a good strategy, like only gradually revealing something: first in the dark where details, colours, the size of the siq (gorge) are all impossible to make out properly. But now in the morning light, WHAT a revelation!

The journey down the siq was punctuated by donkeys and horse carriages going about their early morning business.

When Burckhardt first clapped eyes on this majestic city, he must have had just the same feeling that we had. And when the words ‘rose-red city half as old as time’ were penned by Burgon, what a feeling of expectation the poet must have undergone, for he had to wait another fifteen years to see the great Treasury, the magnificent ruins and the beautiful, multicoloured marbling in the golden sandstone. Well, ‘rose-red’ it actually isn’t, but does that matter one jot?

Our experiences so far on this epic adventure have taken in some of the most spectacular scenery in the world in Nepal, the great Taj Mahal, the world’s longest beach, countless palaces and forts and the holiest place on Earth. Where does Petra rank alongside all this? Well, it’s certainly an experience of a lifetime, that’s for sure! Infact, it was so breathtaking that we actually visited the site three times in all. The nearby marbled sandstone was particularly impressive!

We were very careful in avoiding swarms of tourists. It paid to wake up at six o’clock because we were able to view all that we could in a more natural environment and we could hear the odd birdsong as we strolled down into the Lost City of Petra. The Treasury itself stood magnificently as the sun rose to bathe the top section, shining down obliquely, leaving the lower sections shaded by the surrounding rocks.

Jordanian food is fantastic! We sat down to the all-you-can-eat buffet and were amazed at the variety and the choices. There are twenty-five different types of salad alone! We filled our plates high and returned a number of times to sample many unique and enjoyable tastes. What Arabic cuisine can do with an aubergine would take an entire blog entry in itself! The humble lentil and the simple chickpea are also transformed in this style of cooking, and a basic chopped tomato salad was lifted with the inclusion of some chopped red chillies. A variety of dips with cucumber provided a cooling effect, and cous-cous had chopped mint for some extra ‘zing’. A couple of different pasta dishes completed the buffet, one of which was plain macaroni and the other was jazzy-tasting spaghetti that had flavoursome tomato every now and again.

Petra by Night

The gruelling bus journey with the rancid toilet stop may have been enough to put anybody off. Not us though! And what the evening had in store for us made it all completely worthwhile.
But first of all, we learned a valuable lesson. No matter how brilliant the guidebook says the hotel is, never check into one that is situated right out of town. The chap at the reception was very friendly. “Salaam alykom”, he greeted heartily with a wide smile. We felt very welcome! “Walykom asalaam”, we chorused in response. The journey from this hostel into Wadi Musa was a fair old hike: downhill all the way, but a crippling climb to get back! The taxi service in the area is hilarious: they quote us three JDs just for a short ride, then get offended when we offer just one JD, then look quizzical when we say “Ok, we’ll walk then instead” as our stock response when they refuse to do it for the one dinar. Half of them immediately relent and we get in; the other half drive away empty…
That evening, before our famous duo went out to visit the Lost City of Petra by candlelight, they decided to ‘go native’.

Jon elected to disguise himself as a Jordanian Bedouin, whilst Simon decided to go Palestinian. Do you think that they were able to blend into the scenery? Or did countless Jordanian men stop them and rearrange the headgear into the correct manner?

On the way down into the depths of the Wadi Musa valley towards the legendary Petra, the sun sank behind the phenomenal rock formations of the desert landscape.

Few people are privileged enough to visit the Siq and Treasury of Petra after nightfall, and to do this by the light of 1,700 candles is a truly magical experience. We were accompanied by a crowd of roughly two hundred people, but we fell back away from the crowd so we could hear the night time noises of the gigantic gorge on the way to the Treasury. Following the warm, yellow glow of the candles was equally as great, turning each old bend in the ravine.

And then, unexpectedly, there through the next tall fissure in the rocks of the siq, without warning and looming majestically upwards yet still concealed by the rock so that we can only see a fraction of the main façade, there is the Treasury. It’s massive. Much, much bigger than we had at first imagined. How stunning this sight must have been to those weary travellers two-thousand years ago, and how stunning right now to these two weary travellers as it begins to materialise through the candlelight. As we approach, everybody else is still and silent, sitting on the ground listening to Bedouin musicians. Suddenly, from far within the Treasury, there floats down the distant sound of a simple flute. This flute incantation gradually becomes more rhythmic, more hypnotic and mesmerising as the player gradually moves towards us and the impressionistic sounds slowly become more distinct.

As luck would have it, some Brazilians were filming there and Jon got into conversation with one of them. It turned out that they were from São Paulo and they were filming some kind of professional documentary for the television. The young lady, with whom Jon was talking, suddenly pulled her cameraman towards him and shoved a microphone to his face. At this stage, Jon didn’t know what to say in English, let alone Portuguese. Anyway, we think that he will be on Brazilian TV soon. It could only happen to Jon!

Downtown Amman

As we set out from the Old City of Jerusalem on a chilly but sunny Sunday morning, all the bell towers of the churches tolled joyfully as a summons to prayer, just as the muezzins had done the night before, each one competing for supremacy! But we did not have time to linger, for our goal was, in the words of The Seekers, to move on and cross that Jordan River.
We managed to take a rapid ‘Sherut’ (or in the Jordanian equivalent, ‘Serveece’, which is a shared taxi with a fixed fare for each person) back to the King Hussein Bridge, or Allenby Bridge, as the Israelis call it. In order to get out of Israel (or to be more accurate, the Occupied Territories, for Israel has only claimed this land since the conflict of 1967) we had to pay the sum of one-hundred-and-sixty-one Shekels. Already.
The Jordanian Immigration didn’t really even take place at all, for of course we hadn’t really left Jordan at all, and after all, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem still appears of the twenty Jordanian Dinar bank note. By coincidence (or fluke) we met up again with a young Dutch couple who had been with us on the outward journey to Israel, and as they too were travelling back to Amman, we decided to share a serveece together back into the city.
“Where are you staying?”, they asked us.
“We haven’t booked into a hostel yet, so we still don’t know”, shrugged a confused Simon.
In an instant, Willem was on the phone to his sister, who is currently living in the centre of Amman. We couldn’t understand what the conversation was about… It was all double Dutch to us, although didn’t Jon say “Ik spreek vloient Nederlands” to them earlier? Well, Willem hung up the phone and he gladly said that we could stay the night in his sister’s student apartment. Great! It just so happened that one of the students sharing the apartment is away until the end of May, so we crashed in her room.
And so the afternoon was given over to a full exploration of Downtown Amman. We started by walking from Rainbow Street to Mango Street, where we found the most amazing bookshop with a funky upstairs café to while away an hour or so. Here we drank some more of the Middle East’s fantastic signature beverage: it’s called ‘fresh orange juice’. We also had the world’s best strawberry milkshake, which contained a strawberry syrup-juice right at the bottom of the glass, giving a different flavour and texture as you sucked whilst moving the straw up and down through the drink.
Another tradition throughout the Middle East is to smoke flavoured tobacco through what is commonly called a “shisha”. There are no drugs inside the tobacco; the only thing different is that this particular tobacco tasted like cherry. It is to be smoked by breathing through the mouthpiece on the long hose, which is attached to a large glass compartment that has water inside. Lying above the water in a small metal case is the tobacco itself, which is then covered by tin foil on which burning hot coals rest. As one takes a puff, the sound of whirling bubbles going through the water creates the final authentic touch to being inside a Middle Eastern bar/café. All I can say is that it just had to be done!

Feeling curious, the four of us trundled into the busy shopping district with a local electrical engineer/media enthusiast, called ‘Blue’. He is a friend of Rian (Willem’s sister) and he showed us to a few souvenir shops, where the Dutch couple bought themselves a shisha!
Feeling peckish, we headed for a falafel sandwich and some chips. It was all very good, but the sandwiches were so big that Jon couldn’t eat a whole one, so Simon gobbled it instead. Rian was to receive a surprise present for putting her brother up for a few weeks: a table for the flat, so off we headed to a fascinating part of town specialising in second-hand furniture. With the table safely stowed on a delivery van with Willem navigating back to Rainbow St., the rest of us set off on a white-knuckle taxi ride back to the flat. Jon took the front seat with the driver, safely belted up, with Simon, shisha and Renné, Willem’s better half, in the back. Pulsating Arabic rock and radio announcements blared out of the car’s stereo as we sped across Amman at that twilight time of evening where the stones of the city reflect the orange of the setting sun and the mosques seem to spring into life once more.

We all watched the taxi metre as it slowly made its way upwards towards one whole JD! Taxi rides across town are great value here. But then as we hurtled along a dual carriageway, a large, ominous black Mercedes pulled out from a small side street and began to make its way in our direction. What happened next probably took place in under one second, but as we later discussed it, we all remember the whole incident unfolding before us in slow motion, like a frozen ballet. The elderly Mercedes driver had completely misjudged his angle of turning and which lane he wanted, and probably hadn’t even seen our taxi bearing down upon him from his left. CRUNCH*!*! as our taxi driver swerved to HIS left to avoid the collision, but this took us into a concrete central reservation wall. The Merc continued to veer left as well, sandwiching us between the wall and the Stuttgart armoury. The air filled with the sound of grinding metal as we decelerated to a standstill in a remarkably short period of time. Silence. The taxi driver was in such shock that he was speechless and motionless. What a lucky escape: we walked away unhurt!
Tomorrow we start early, for we have a long journey southwards: the lost city of Petra awaits us!

A quick message to Janet!

You were wondering if we would find lassi in the Middle East... Well, so far we have not discovered any, but we have found something that we appreciate much more at the moment! On the side of just one of the many winding streets within the Old City walls, we stumbled across freshly squeezed orange juice. We realised that this was not to be missed as we saw the tower of large, tempting oranges alongside his juicer. This fresh orange juice was no doubt the best we have ever tasted! X

Via Dolorosa

The way of suffering. It was along this route that Jesus last walked before his crucifixion. Through winding streets of sandy limestone cobbles, typical of Old Jerusalem, it was fascinating to involve ourselves fully by following in Jesus Christ’s final footsteps. The Via Dolorosa has fourteen stations, each of which bear significance to the day of the Crucifixion, around the year AD 30.

From nearby the starting point of the Via Dolorosa, we stood in awe as we gazed towards the Mount of Olives. The first station is tricky to locate, in the middle of an Islamic school, whilst the second is somewhere at the ‘Ecce Homo’ convent. But at the Chapel of the Flagellation we arrived at a significant time: the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. For just a few moments we joined the small group meditating in the Real Presence and we realised that this was THE perfect start to our walking of the Way of the Cross, for Christ wasn’t just here two thousand years ago, he was here right now! The third station is marked by a small Polish chapel where we had earlier witnessed a violent fight, right infront of five armed police, whilst we were then able to continue underground to the fourth station, where we once again found a small chapel with the Blessed Sacrament, this time displayed in a stunningly vivid and modern way. 

At the fifth station, we saw where Simon of Cyrene carried the cross for Jesus, whilst at the sixth station, Veronica received his image. The seventh station is marked by a tiny chapel built into the wall of a souq: during the 1^st century this was at the edge of the city and from here a gate led out into the countryside. Therefore the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was certainly situated ‘without a city wall’, and our visit to the true site of Calvary seemed all the more probable. At the eighth station Jesus met with the Daughters of Zion, whilst at the ninth station, a Coptic church conceals a massive underground water cistern where we discovered a fantastic echo.

For the remaining five stations, we entered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Much of this building is in the control of the Greek Orthodox community, and it is certainly a wonderful experience to explore, complete with the smells of incense, the flicker of candlelight, the magnificent oil lamps and the lavish decorations in silver and gold. We ascended to the site of the Crucifixion and lingered at the chapel on the spot where Christ died, marvelling at the many candles and looking directly down onto the bedrock of Calvary to the place where the crosses were anchored into the ground. 

Downstairs again, we witnessed the close of an Orthodox liturgy in the main part of the building, complete with numberless monks, nuns and priests. Joining the queue to enter the site of the tomb, we heard the singing of various traditions of Christianity, from the Franciscans, to some simple chanting of Eastern Orthodox priests, whilst echoing round the building was the sonorous Byzantine melismas of the Greeks. 

And then we had reached the head of the queue and suddenly there we were, crouching slightly to enter the tiny chamber illuminated by multicoloured oil lamps on the ceiling on the way in, and solely by devotional candles as we knelt. Were we really here? It seemed so unreal. But there before us was a stone slab, perhaps on the exact place of the Resurrection. But this building has undergone sacking, earthquake and fire. And of course, we are still assuming that St. Helen herself had identified the correct location back in the fourth century. But if not the exact location, we were certainly closer to the tomb of Christ than we had ever been on any other day of our lives, and so this place for us was the holiest spot on the planet. 

Ye Old Trip to Jerusalem

Have you ever been to Nottingham, where there is an ancient inn with the name ‘Ye Old Trip to Jerusalem’? Here is their website: www.triptojerusalem.com

Well, you will doubtless be as surprised as we were to find out what has happened to us next on our epic journey of discovery!

But first, a little summary of our final few hours in Delhi and onwards to the Middle East.

We arrived with many hours to spare at the airport, so that we could relax and enjoy all the facilities of the departure lounge. At this point, we were perplexed to see the long queues simply to gain access to the check-in zones. We were eventually herded to the front of the line and told to go away by a security officer with a machine gun. Apparently people are only permitted into the building no more than three hours prior to the departure time of their flights. We had arrived eight hours ahead of time, and were waved over the road to a pokey little area with uncomfortable seats and a food hall serving reheated slices of pizza. After some games of chess (in which, incidentally Jon adopted some startlingly new, aggressive tactics which resulted in a 2-0 victory for him) we were asked to leave even this area because we were occupying a table. Simon commented to the restaurant manager in a rather brusque way his opinion of this policy. On our way to the second attempt at penetrating the check-in zone, a very pretty but unbelievably rude young lady again tried to stop us. Once past her, another security guard attempted to fob us off once more, but Simon was having none of it. “Go away”, said the guard, by now worn down by the persistence of the weary travellers, pointing them in the direction of the other security guard. Perhaps the next one would be more of a soft touch?

Staff training SHOULD become a priority at this airport in the very near future. More specifically, training the armed guards to read and understand an airline ticket. It’s not rocket, is it? This final guard was completely flummoxed by the concept of an e-ticket and by the idea of a stopover. He was unable to ascertain even the dates on which we were to fly. Simon adopted the tactic of repeating over and over again the same, simple information, in a very forthright manner. Eventually the guard realised the only way to get rid of us was to let us pass. And pass we did, into what can only be described as the paradise of the Indira Gandhi International Airport. Check-in was smooth and perfect, as was our passage through security and into the comfort of the departure lounge. Perhaps this must count as one of our best ever experiences the world’s airports?

The Royal Jordanian flight was on a brand-new Airbus A-319, painted in ‘One World’ alliance colours. There were very few passengers, and a very helpful and attentive crew on the six hour flight to Amman, during which there was a great breakfast service, followed by cakes with tea and coffee. On reading the in-flight magazine, we quickly realised that we were not to be the only important visitors to Amman that morning: Pope Benedict XVI was also arriving in town! But would we get to see him?

Our onward plans within Jordan took an unexpected turn: yes, we WILL get to explore Jordan, as you will soon find out, but first, something else was beckoning. Something with deep spiritual significance.

Many people visit India for its spiritual and mystic qualities. Perhaps the holy Hindu city of Varanasi offers a certain depth to travellers seeking a profound experience. Or perhaps the meeting with Buddhist monks and the visiting of Buddhist monasteries gives the weary traveller a glimpse of some spiritual peace. But for us, these expected experiences didn’t quite happen. There was something quite alien and false about the mumbo-jumbo of Hindu practices we had witnessed, both in India and Nepal, whilst this emptiness also seemed to be at the heart of Buddhism. Strangely, we longed for a fix of some Christianity.

And so as we smoothly negotiated our passage through the Queen Alia Airport in Jordan, buying our Jordanian visas and getting our hands on some Jordanian Dinars, we decided on exactly where to head next!

“Taxi!”

“Where you go?”

“The King Hussein Bridge!”

This border crossing would then be just a short shared taxi ride from our goal. Exiting Jordan was perfectly simple. Gaining entry to the most security-conscious country on Earth was to prove far trickier and far more time consuming. Would it be worth it?

After much queuing, multiple passport inspection, disinfection, photography, finger-print taking, answering of personal and intrusive questions (for which, incidentally, Jon took the lead with his diplomatic expertise…) we were in. “Welcome to Israel”, beamed the pretty young lady.

We passed right by Jericho, then saw signs for Ramallah and Bethlehem: we were in the heart of the West Bank, and the beautiful scenery of the side of the rift-valley was often punctuated by heartbreakingly simple Palestinian shanty settlements. Then on the hillsides, the Israeli developments came into view: apartments with balconies juxtaposed with massive concrete walls, redolent of East Berlin. And then on the top of a hill, the campanile of a church. Once through a long road tunnel, the scenery all changed: here was a massive city. And suddenly there was the Dome of the Rock as we looked down upon the Holy City. Our first view of Jerusalem was spectacular!

Dropped off by the Damascus gate, we marvelled at the scope and size of the city walls as we headed into the Old City with its different quarters: Arabic quarter, Jewish quarter, Christian quarter, Armenian quarter and so on. And later we marvelled at the moonlight casting its beams over the white limestone of the magnificent fortifications.

We stumbled across the Golden Gate Hostel, a converted mediaeval brewery, and couldn’t believe our luck in finding a small room complete with exposed ancient brickwork and a gothic-vaulted ceiling. And then out to explore in the streets of the Old City, with its myriad, teeming bazaars selling all manner of goods from tempting sweets, to pungent and aromatic spices, to souvenirs, ancient icons and carvings, oil lamps and textiles. How magnificent!

The muezzins began their call to prayer, each mosque interweaving and intermingling with the sounds of the others to create an otherwordly, slow harmony. And as the sun began to cast its final, golden rays of Friday afternoon sun onto the stonework, we found our way to a small balcony overlooking the Wailing Wall. Making our way down onto the Plaza we mingled with vast numbers of Orthodox Jews as Shabbat commenced, and covering our heads as a mark of respect we made our way over to touch the sacred wall. Later, as darkness descended we passed hundreds (possibly thousands) of Orthodox Jews as they walked in procession out through the Damascus Gate. What a memory of a lifetime!  

  

Fitness First

Starting the day with a huge, delicious breakfast was the best thing that we could have done. This was to be a day of strenuous activity. We began by walking a great distance, browsing through the bazaars and stopping in at various cafés. Once again we spent a good time in the Saravana Bhavan where we tried a selection of tasty drinks (and onion bhajis!). The bhajis were accompanied with the best curry sauce that we have had throughout the whole of our journey, the only problem with it was that there wasn’t enough! Back to the fluids though: we had carrot juice (that’s as orange as drinks go!) and fresh lime soda, which came with some sweet syrup in case we didn’t want it too bitter.
As we were mooching through the small handicraft bazaars, the multi-tonal sound of frantic bongo beats crept up behind us. This reminded us of yesterday, when we were followed by a young lad playing one of his many bongos skilfully as he tried to make sales. When we looked around we found that it was the same persistent chap and that he was having a second go at selling us a drum for one-thousand-two-hundred rupees or so. We continued exploring the stalls, wandering in and out of shops, but, without fail, he would always be outside waiting patiently. And then the funky rhythms would begin all over again.
Come the evening, we found just what we had been looking for all day, to cure an immense feeling of exercise deprivation. Infact, we hadn’t been to any gyms for the whole of the trip, so we seized the moment and had a blast. When enquiring about the entrance fees, we found that it was pretty expensive. It was almost six-hundred rupees per person, but to our surprise the manager admitted two of us for the price of one. The gym was amazing: full of fantastic machines, complete with a sauna, steam room and loads of people. The atmosphere was buzzing and, in some corners, it was as if people were treating the gym as a social event rather than just a work out. All in the medium of English… Was this the Delhi high-society?
A cycling class was taking place just as we entered, so in we went for one hour of intense pain. The young Indian woman instructing the class was a barrel of laughs and she was really enjoying her job. Her smiles never stopped coming and she was forever singing with the music. We were pleasantly surprised that the classes and general announcements at the gym are spoken in English, which meant that we knew what to do and when we had to leave the gym. In previous parts of the journey, we have been slightly left in the dark on things like bus journeys where they only made announcements in Hindi, or Bengali during our time in Bangladesh.
We enjoyed the other machines in the gym too, whilst we were training independently. Time went by unbelievably fast, and before we knew it, we had completed two-and-a-half solid hours of intensive, gruelling exercise. I have been missing that!
The drinks’ corner provided complimentary soft drinks, so we took a Mirinda out onto the roof of the gym to watch the pulsating night-time cityscape of Delhi unfolding beneath us, with its glitzy lights and frenetic traffic. What a cosmopolitan area Connaught Place is!
As we tried to leave, the doormen erupted into a mighty argument involving pushing, punching and raised voices. “Call security”, said Simon, helpfully. “They ARE Security”, sniggered the manager, adding: “These poor Indians, they have no education, so this is how they behave!” He himself, of course, was Indian to the core.
After a stroll around the immense circle of Connaught Place, we discovered ‘Shanghai Express’. Curried-out once more, it came as a welcome relief to tuck into some amazing oriental food: a flavoursome roasted-garlic soup, and a Thai style soup with coconut milk and red curry paste really hit the spot, whilst a chop suey gave a great post-exercise hit. Just to spoil your perception of the Chinese cuisine, chop suey is actually an American concoction and was not actually invented by the Chinese. It originated in a San Francisco diner in the nineteenth century, when the owner received some hungry last minute guests. With only a few leftover vegetables and some noodles, his creativity sparked as he threw the lot into a huge wok, creating a wonderful tasting dish.
And then back at the hotel, it began to dawn on Simon what was happening: Tim and Tom, take note! Wouldn’t it be ironic to have journeyed through the entirety of South Asia and NOT have contracted ‘Delhi-Belly’, only to have arrived in Delhi at the end, and fall victim to this nasty little affliction? For the full story, we need to rewind just a little:
At breakfast on our first morning in the capital, after paying the bill, Simon had a peculiar verbal exchange with the waiter. He tendered the EXACT money to pay the bill, yet the waiter seemed perplexed by this strategy. “No tips?” mumbled the irate steward. “No tips!” confirmed our traveller. “Where you from?” continued our café assistant, before the duo chirped in unison: “England!”
“England: rich country”, observed the waiter as he stumbled away, and Simon tried to add: “India: poor country spending too much on its space and nuclear programmes to help the poor.” But it was all in vain; he had disappeared before the first words were out. We didn’t think much more of it, but slightly in guilt, we tipped reasonably for the subsequent two breakfasts.
But yesterday, Simon ordered a very enjoyable Mango Lassi. As he sucked enthusiastically at the straw to hoover up the last remaining mouthfuls from the bottom of the glass, there it was, forlornly staring up at him. An ice cube. The others had melted, leaving the final, incontrovertible evidence for all to see. Now we can only surmise how the ice made it into Simon’s lassi, and whether or not this ice was made from sterilised water would be very hard to prove. And the biggest suspicion: that the waiter had put it there deliberately to cause the convulsions of agony as a means of punishing the tight-fisted bourgeois westerner: well this must remain pure speculation. BUT, intrepid travellers beware, and learn from the mistakes of the ‘India, Bangladesh (plus Nepal) and Jordan’ explorers. Exploring on YOUR behalf: NEVER, never, never get complacent, and NEVER let your guard down as the finishing line approaches.
And so here we sit at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, awaiting our flight to Amman on Royal Jordanian Airlines. For the trip is far, far from over: the next exciting instalment awaits us!