Everything has turned pink! No, it's not because I've left a red sock in with the whites, it's from hiking around Petra. To call this archaeological treasure the "Rose City" is almost unfair to the myriad of hues in the carved psychedelic swirls of rock. This century-concealed city could rival the colors of any paint store, with hues like salmon, russet, periwinkle, plum, powder blue, ash, ochre, burgundy, slate, thistle, ivory, and of course, Petra-pink! Those clever carvers had chosen rock that provided natural decor.
Petra is Jordan's most famous attraction, a city hewn from towering rock by the ancient Nabateans, conquered and abandoned by the Romans, hidden for centuries by the Bedouin, "rediscovered" by a Swiss, and most recently made famous by Sean Connery and Harrison Ford. For some tourists Petra might be the only site they see in Jordan. There are even "1 Day Tours" from Sinai to Petra. This astounds me. These poor tourists must roll up in the bus, race through "the Siq," (a deep narrow gorge hemmed in by cliffs soaring up to 200 M high and as narrow as 2M wide) snap some shots of the Treasury and get herded right back out onto the bus via overpriced gift shops. Such a shame! I spent 3 days exploring the city and barely scratched the surface. Petra is huge and there are enough hikes in the area to keep one busy for a week. Unfortunately I was cursed with a bad knee from my climb up Mt. Sinai (they say those that step foot on the mountain are damned, and now I believe it's true!) My inability to agilely shimmy up cliff faces like I wanted to severely hampered my exploration of the "8th Wonder of the Ancient World." I was gimping along so badly by the second day that I was forced to swallow my pride and ride a mule up the 800 steps to the monastery. The mule and the Bedouin guide ran up the narrow, steep steps at full speed, knocking people off the path or leaving a pile of donkey dung for them to step in if they had managed to escape from the flying hooves. Panting hikers and little old ladies would scream at me "that's cheating!" How embarrassing and unsatisfying! I felt rotten getting to the top without breaking a sweat.
Luckily, Petra not only has natural beauty and ancient marvels to offer, but also surprisingly friendly inhabitants. Around every corner you would find a dope-smoking Bedouin woman with a weathered, tattooed face more eager to share sugary tea and smiles than to push her wares. The man who took me on the mule went by "Dr. Love" and his ass was named "Jack" (great names!) He had invited me to share a meal and meet his family in the village, Wadi Musa. Partly for the experience, and party for the transportation of my broken body up the steep hill to the town, I accepted his offer. His family was lovely, all making a huge fuss over me. There was tea (this is just the beginning of many tea stories!) excited sign language, and little ones dancing to Beyonce for my entertainment. The four sisters took turns dressing me in various headscarf styles, expertly lining my eyes and spraying me with flowery scents. Upon leaving, they insisted that I accept jewelry and clothes as gifts. This hospitality was not what I expected from the town where over half of Jordan's tourist revenue came from. I was lucky I suppose, as I have heard horror stories of this tourist-trap town from fellow travelers. Little did I know the best was yet to come.
On day three, Dr. Love invited me to a Bedouin bachelor party. As a foreign woman I was given "honorary male" status and invited to the outdoor dancing for the men, while the women gathered in the building across the street and watched from the balcony, cheering on the men with clapping and ululations. I was the only woman, and only foreigner, yet somehow was made to feel comfortable and welcome. Dignified men looking like sheiks sat warming themselves next to small fires, drinking tea while the younger men danced under strings of fairy lights. Musicians took turns at the mike, playing their hearts out on tablas, lutes and even bagpipes! The men circled counter-clockwise, holding hands, and moving their feet together in co-ordinated steps, with the younger, clumsy boys trailed along the end of the line, trying to keep up. As the music grew more intense, so did the dance. Suddenly there would be an explosion of music and flying leaps. The young men stomped and high kicked, sending dust flying into the air. It was a combination of Cossack squats, African jumps, Riverdance footwork and belly dancer shimmies. They had the same cowboy energy in their dance as they did when running up hills after donkeys and fat (gimpy) tourists. I couldn't stop smiling. And smiling. And smiling.
