I’m writing this entry retrospectively (and very much nostalgically) in the oppressive heat of London, as its yellow grassy commons have started to resemble that of Jordan..
(minus the camels of course)
I started this entry back in March after finally making it across to Jordan, following an unsuccessful attempt in November. This wasn’t without its drama, although it helped that the border was actually open this time round. After passing through the first check, I proceeded to take the sunnier outdoor route down through the (pictured) ‘corridor’ between ‘Israel’ and ‘Jordan’.
In choosing this route it turns out I missed the crucial border stamp inside as well as the sign strictly informing me to ‘walk this way’, and was consequently detained at the far exit as if I was some sort of illegal immigrant (which at this point I guess I was). After an hour’s delay in which neither I nor the border guards could work out how I had evaded the necessary stamp, we realised my mistaken route in a mixture of Jordanian Arabic and apologetic English and I retraced my steps to the indoor corridor somewhat embarrassed. This innocent but seemingly criminal debacle continued on the other side of the border as I attempted to walk the hour long dusty road to Aqaba, a nearby town, and was quickly stopped by the border police who told me in no uncertain terms that I would be shot on sight by the military further along. This might have been a ploy to secure the waiting taxi drivers some business but let’s say they successfully scared me into taking one.
Upon arrival in Aqaba, I headed straight for the beach to wait for my friend Julia who was driving down from Amman. But for the first time maybe ever, I didn’t quite feel comfortable enough to launch myself into its sea. I wrote at the time why: ‘I’m sat, not quite knowing how to feel as I’m pelted slowly and deliberately with nuts by a group of Jordanian guys who have decided to plant themselves right behind me and my bag on what is a relatively empty beach. Goddammit, or godamm-them rather because I now don’t quite feel like getting in the water and leaving all my things…’ I tried stubbornly ignoring them and their nuts (and journalling furiously) until one of them asked if I had a boyfriend and I made the mistake of trying to explain the nuances of bisexuality which after an hour still remained completely incomprehensible to them. Julia’s arrival to the beach was a very welcome interruption but our (‘thank you for rescuing me’ two minute hug) did, I think, nothing to dispel their confusion at everything I had just explained… Thankfully, we managed to secure a more secluded spot for dinner:
My second attempt at a swim was more successful although it happened fully clothed, as it was the only seemingly appropriate way of entering the water in view of a conservative crowd. It turns out this wasn’t protection enough as I promptly managed to walk into a sea urchin which deposited its spines in my foot and quickly put an end to my swim. The Jordanian locals had a variety of reactions, some helpful: ‘it’s nothing’, some not so much: ‘ah mawelleh (in arabic: ‘you die’). Without my even asking, they proposed a variety of treatments ranging from white vinegar for my foot, orange juice for me and most unexpectedly a cigarette which my hostel manager took out of his mouth and stubbed out against the puncture wounds without any warning to ‘stop infection’ as if the flaking, unclean ash would do just that…
After leaving the relative chaos of Aqaba, we headed for the peace of the Wadi Rum desert to join the company of local Bedouin tour guides. My journal from the two days we spent there reads only one sentence: ‘This sunset is to be sat in, not scribbled in’. I’m sure you’ll agree.
The landscape here was completely other-worldly, appropriate given that it was the film set of the 2015 Mars film, 'Martian’, complete with red skies, sands and alien-like features:
The entire experience was every bit as peaceful and inspiring as the nomadic Bedouin lifestyle advertises as. With only camels for our other company, it proved to be a complete break from the incredibly social environment of my new term back in Jerusalem. As if we had been dropped through the screen of an Attenborough documentary but without the quite so savage interactions of the predators and prey.
After Wadi Rum, there was Petra and the mandatory token selfies from both.
And again, minimal journalling, leaving the pictures to speak for the magic of this 2300 year old ancient city which was only recently discovered and excavated.
It was as wondrous as it looks (being one of the ‘7 Wonders of the World) and the braying crowds of tourists, donkeys and locals made the desert quiet even more of a uniquely precious escape. But at least for now, it's London’s heady crowds that will have to suffice…