Photos are here: http://picasaweb.google.com/nickchasingthesunrise/Jordan
With a heavy heart and full stomach I left Dahab and Egypt behind me. In the minibus with me was an American woman, Christina, who was on a break from an internship at the Palestinian Women's Centre in the West Bank – amazing experiences, especially their regular Friday rallies dispersed with tear gas. We bonded over sheesha and looked forward to getting to Jordan. Assumptions about the country ahead were that it was more developed, richer, politically aligned to the West with Amman as a base for the UN mission into Iraq but precarious balance (is there an other type of balance in the Middle East?) of relations with Syria to the north, Israel to the west, Saudi Arabia to the south and, of course, Iraq to the east.
The ferry border crossing was easy enough. At the pushy queue at the ticket office we saw an older couple with seasoned road bikes and speculated how long they had been on the road. We jumped on the ferry and waited for departure 2-3 hours later. Suddenly we pulled away from the dock, our departure a full 2 hours early! On board we met the gregarious Greg, a Canadian top end burger restaurant waiter, who immediately proved to be a brilliant banterist and champion of fun. Also met cyclist couple who turned out to be Swiss and German so I asked how long they had been on the road – the answer floored us – NINE YEARS! I was flabbergasted and for some reason asked how many flat tyres to which he replied 358. Nine years is unreal, whole governments, families and cities change in that time – their house has probably been bulldozed and friends married, had kids, divorced and remarried.
We had a few delays on the Aqaba (Jordan) side but managed to find a taxi and head for Petra, only 3 hours away. We stopped at a service station and found it stocked with no less than 24 different types of pistachios so grabbed a few bags for the road. The landscape continued to be stark desert with more mountains but the towns were obviously better built. Staggered up the hill from the Wadi Musa (the town that has sprung up around Petra) station to Valentine's hostel, with banterful manager Valentina, hot showers, a glorious huge local food buffet and a session of Indian Jones and the Last Crusade (parts filmed at Petra). And of course we had to break in Christina's beautiful new sheesha.
Petra: the glory of the Nabataeans
Day 1: Greg, Christina and I agreed on a 7am start and the hostel dropped us at the entrance where I bought a two day ticket. First was the siq, a long natural passageway between the rock cliffs that shielded Petra from view from Wadi Musa. After about 2km and just when you think it will never end you catch a glimpse through the narrow canyon of the awesome Al-Khazneh (Treasury), as with most of Petra it has been carved out of the pink sandstone cliffs that rise up on all sides creating a grand cavernous backdrop. Past the Treasury, we walked the street of facades with its houses and shops which we scrambled up the cliffs to explore. Then there were the magnificent Royal Tombs, The Great Temple and the remains of the Edomite village.
The crowds from Amman started to throng so we hopped off the beaten path and wandered in search of a fabled spring and river. I discovered a small spring where we soothed hot feet but soon were convinced that a larger pool lay ahead where we could swim. We joined forces with a French/Australian couple and continued on until the river bed became blocked with boulders so Greg, Christina and I turned back and the couple continued vowing to find the spring and meet us at the hostel with wet hair as proof. We never saw them again and speculated they perished in the attempt until later when Valentina told me they checked out – obviously ashamed of the failure to find a larger pool. Walking back to the main Petra ruins, I noticed what appeared to be a human thigh bone lying just off the path. Greg obliged by gripping it in his teeth and declared his new found taste for cannibalism.
Next was the impressive Crusader Fort, and then we set off up a َlong rock cut stair case and path to Al-Deir (the Monastery) via the intriguing Lion Tomb. The Monastery was well worth the climb with its huge façade and behind it stunning views over Jordan and Israel. We descended for a drink in the 1,000 year old Cave Bar, much deserved after a 13-hour day at Petra. Then back to the hostel for the irresistible buffet and the view over the town lit up by a fierce battle of fireworks by rival neighbourhoods keen to show off that their children had graduated from high school.
Petra Day 2: after walking Christina to the bus stop I had breakfast with Greg then set off via internet for Petra. My legs and other parts were suffering after the previous day's mammoth exploration. We hit our regular cafe at the royal tombs for sustenance then found a stone staircase behind the tombs which led us up the Jebel Umm al'Amr mountain. It was a tough climb but we chanced upon a deaf man in a cave who showed us the way. We eventually reached the top of the cliff with a brilliant view above the Treasury where we rested and contemplated deep and serious issues and men's business. Then it was back down to the tombs café for drinks and a nargileh where we bumped into (Belgian) Chris who I met in Dahab so we met for dinner at the Shaheed roundabout with excellent banter until late.
Amman and The Dead Sea: Greg and I then headed north for the capital – a modern Arab city, not classic or ancient beauty but good hum and action. After dumping our gear at the Farah hotel, we jumped in a cab to Suweimeh station for the bus to The Dead Sea. Almost there we were dropped at an intersection and caught a taxi to 'Amman Beach'. The oppressive 47 degree summer heat was made bearable by the thought of the coming swim. At first I waded in over the rocks and salt crystals, keeping my head above water with my body bobbing like a cork, literally above the water. Greg got salt in his eyes so had to leave for the nearby shower. When I swam to deeper water, even vertically upright my body did not sink – it reminded me of a blackfish float at The Wall at Southwest Rocks in northern NSW. As I floated I gazed at Israel across the water.
I noticed the locals smearing mud on bodies on the shore so joined them, the mineral rich slop is apparently sold throughout the world and my skin retained glow for weeks which I hope was healthy. Showered a few times in between bathing stints as the intense salt started to affect the Netherlands ;). Soon the sun's heat became ridiculous so Greg and I sat under the shower on plastic chairs and took in the shimmering sea. Headed back to Amman by bus and taxi then spent the rest of the enjoyable afternoon on a balcony playing backgammon, drinking mint tea and smoking sheesha in a funky student/chess/backgammon café overlooking a main road. That night I braved the chaos and obsession of the kunata queue (dripping cheese and sugar slice soaked with baklava style syrup) then crashed after buzzing with a sugar high.
The Roman ruins of Jerash: I checked out early and we headed to Abdali bus station for the minibus to Jerash in the northeast of Jordan, on the road to the border with Syria. Dumped my pack in the information centre locker and explored the ancient roman city in Jerash with its Greek, Pagan and Christian influences. Highlights were the restored Hippodrome – used for chariot races even today – and the oval Plaza and Forum. NB for Canberra old timers – one drinks stall was called Dolly's but didn't have hot chips :( Then we ambled along the main street of Cardo Maximus, peered at the old wheel ruts from Roman chariots, continued up to Nymphaeum, the city gateway and glorious Temple of Artemis. Toured the north theatre being set up for classical music concert – its topmost rows provided superb view of entire ruins. Then we completed our circuit of ruins past the churches to the Temple of Zeus and back to the main entrance. I grabbed my pack and headed for the bus station.
Walking along I slipped on the smooth, dusty concrete – wearing my full pack – narrowly catching myself before I plunged into the involuntary splits. Feeling relieved at not hurting myself and strangely somewhat breezy I looked down and found I had ripped my pants from knee to crotch with a gaping rent enabling lovely visuals for passers-by. Mildly embarrassed, I changed in a café kitchen and tossed the pants. At the bus station I found a minibus waiting to go to Irbid, my drop-off for the Syrian border. After a sad and quick goodbye to Greg who was to return to Amman and then back to Egypt, I steeled myself for the unknown of crossing into "rogue state" Syria without a visa.
Crossing the border into Syria: I had been warned – actually, I had been explicitly told it was not possible. The Lonely Planet says you must get a visa in your home country if there is a Syrian embassy (Canberra has one); I rang the Syrian embassy in London who told me that I couldn't get a visa in London, nor Egypt, or Jordan. But LP's Thorn Tree forum on Syria had 2 or 3 tales of successful crossings at the Ramtha (Jordan)/Dera (Syria) post. So when I arrived at Irbid's station I sought out a shared taxi to Damascus, which was easy but had to wait an hour or so for it to fill.
Whizzing through the final stretch of Jordan before crossing I was damn nervous, mostly because of the visa but also some worry about what exactly lay ahead in this supposedly "rogue state". Listened a lot to Silverchair's album Young Modern to maintain enthusiasm. The Jordan side was easy and quick with no hassle or luggage check. Then we pulled up at Syrian immigration and a young officer greeted me at the counter where I explained how long I had been travelling and how I couldn't get a visa beforehand. He smiled and without hesitating told me it was US$15 and handed me the form – not even a hint of obstruction. I started to fill it out and his superior came up and advised the cost was actually $30 and that I should change money down the road at the bank. After the bank it took around 15 minutes at Immigration before my name was called and my passport returned with shiny new 15-day Syrian visa – brilliant!
Back into the taxi and stopped at customs, they asked me to open my bag and poked inside a little and grabbed my soap container and asked what it was. I said it was soap (sabon in Arabic, like the Indonesian sabun) and all laughed – much to my amused ignorance. Later I discovered on Thorn Tree that Aleppo in northern Syria produces olive oil soap sought around the world and that the customs guys thought it was silly to bring soap into Syria. The ease of the border crossing and the jokes and incredibly helpful people at every step set the tone for the rest of my journey in Syria.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
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