JORDAN – DEATH THREATS IN THE WADI RUM

The crossing from Nuweiba in the Sinai Peninsula to Aqaba is in itself quite smooth.  There is immediate trouble upon arrival in Jordan, however.  Visas are not necessary for arrival at this port town, but travelers must carry stamped transit papers.  Yet you can’t get the papers without a Visa!  It is your classic Catch 22 situation.  They are not prepared for Americans coming in from Nuweiba.  Most arrive for single-day round-trip jaunts to the ruins of Petra via the Egyptian port of Taba – a much shorter trip.

I am taken “with prejudice” by the police, forced to leave my pack and suitcase in an open parking lot out of my direct sight, and accompany them to the processing center.  None of them speak English.  But they do know how to say: “Papers?”  I point out a visa is not needed.  The proclamation falls on deaf ears.  We go around and round in circles.  After half an hour, an apologetic English speaking Police Lieutenant arrives, cuts through the paperwork, and personally walks me out to the taxi stand for a ride into town.

The lurking taxi drivers are no better than their immigration counterparts.  They do a vertical scan assessment of me, conclude as an American traveler I am well suited for their customary fleecing, and immediately quote double the normal rates for the 12 kilometer  ride into town.  We argue.  I emphasize the normal rates (from talking to locals on the ferry in advance).  They stall and offer fanciful explanations for their charges.  This quickly grows tiresome.  There are better ways to spend valuable time than negotiating with these cocky charlatans.

A couple of policemen are nearby.  My walk to their hut is as purposeful, obvious and attention getting as I can manage.  Much deliberate pointing and gesturing at the extortionist drivers is acted out.  The police call them over.  They know the standard rates, and demand an explanation for these lurid markups.  A trip at normal rates is more or less commanded on the spot.  But not without lingering resentment.

For some reason, Jordan – or at least the city of Aqaba – is feeling feisty relative to its economic prowess.  The folks at Yafko Hotel want $60 for a room.  It goes without saying this is not a rate which can be sustained for 137 days.  It is out of the question.  I am encouraged to use the lobby computer to seek alternatives.  To the credit of Tamer and Rami at the front desk, they make calls to seek hotels with better rates. A good sized room with full amenities is found at the congenial Moon Beach Hotel for only $35.

Often during this journey I am asked what I miss the most from home?  The answers are easy.  My sons.  My soccer team.  “The Economist.”  Crisp bacon (only meat that in itself makes up a “food group”).  Artichokes.  Asparagus.  Avocados.  Real salad dressing.  And salmon.  This first night in Jordan, I am relieved to sup at The Ocean Restaurant, one of the finest dining stops encountered along a five-month trail.  The salmon rocked.

There are no must-see stops on my Jordan list save one.  That is the famous carved rock canyon of Petra, famous from the Steven Spielberg movie “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.”  I have also been advised locally to take in the desert wonderland of Wadi Rum, located about 40 kilometers east of Aqaba (and stay in a Bedouin camp if time allows).  Arrangements are made through the hotel to visit both on an extended day tour. 

The two hour and fifteen minute drive skirts the Israeli-Jordanian border along a line paralleling the Dead Sea.  The highway is of surprising quality, with two broad lanes to each side so that lorries and tourist buses can by bypassed with ease.  The route is very scenic, punctuated with broken mountain mesas, bone-dry desert slopes, isolated scrub brush, and multi-hued colorful rock sedimentation.  It reminds me of Sedona, Arizona.

Petra was first populated by the Nabataeans, an ancient tribe emigrating from Arabia that came under the influence of Roman and Greek cultures through engagement in the caravan trade business.  By this means, they became masters of the region’s trade activity, dealing in frankincense, myrrh, spices, silks, ivory, and animal hides.

The Nabataeans grew an empire extending deep back into Arabia but through careful diplomacy managed not to compete with the Greeks or Romans in preserving their independence.  Eventually this kingdom was annexed to the Roman Empire in 106 AD.  Petra and the Nabataean civilization managed to flourish for many more years, until trade route shifts and lessened demand for its specialties diminished.  Petra was eventually abandoned and then lost to the west after the 14^th century.  It was rediscovered by Swiss traveler Johann Burckhardt in 1812.

You can see Petra coming from miles away approaching from the south, on winding roads descending to its red rose, rust and chocolate ravines.  A veritable bazaar of tourist huts and food stalls awaits visitors at the mouth of the canyon’s gated entry.  In the distance you see steep bouldered slopes, craggy mountain tops, towering cliffs, tombs, theatres, and stairways.  Man and nature conspire in conferring a mythical aura to the site.

From the entry Petra’s enchantment begins with a one kilometer approach via narrow gorge (called As-Siq), bookended with walls up to 80 meters high directing visitors down to the key feature of the site – Al-Khazneh, or “The Treasury.”  Along the way are richly layered geological formations, multi-colored rocks, agricultural terraces, water channels, small dams, and prayer niches carved into the rock.  The high-walled and shaded twisting pathway inbound is mindful of The Narrows at Zion National Park in Utah.

The Treasury at 30 meters wide and 43 meters high is the clear highlight of Petra.  Like the Eiffel Tower in Paris or the Tower Bridge in London, it is iconic in its identification with Jordan.  Its columned and deeply etched façade was made famous as the retreat in the Indiana Jones movie where the Holy Grail and Cup of Christ are guarded.  It is Hellenistic Greek in design.  The Treasury was carved in the 1^st Century BC as a tomb for an as yet unidentified Nabataean King.

Petra really requires two to three days to get an adequate look.  Hustling still requires a full dawn-to-dusk effort.  I did not enjoy this luxury.  Nevertheless, you get a fair representation of all this site has to offer with a four-hour self-guided tour taken on the double-quick.  This is possible because each tomb interior soon begins to look much like its predecessors -- what differs is the carvings, lighting, setting, and exterior.

Highlights of Petra include the Qasr al-Bint, the primary surviving temple due to its avoidance of flood and earthquake damage … The Ad-Deir Monastery, with 800 stone-cut stairs directing the visitor to its lofty mountain perch … the open air Roman Amphitheatre (flattery being part of the Nabataean pacification effort with the Romans) which could seat 7000 and is cut into solid rock in one of Petra’s many bowls …The Urn Tomb, largest of the Royal Tombs with its 17 x 19 meter primary chamber … The Sextius Florentinus Tomb, dedicated to the Roman Governor of Arabia who nevertheless wished to be buried in Petra … The awe inspiring Great Temple of Petra, modeled after The Temple of Jupiter in Rome … and the  marble paved Colonnaded Street, flanked by shops and public buildings while reminding visitors of the Appian Way in Rome.

Not enough florid prose can really be shined on Petra.  Some archeologists have ranked this UNESCO World Heritage Site (1985) as the 8^th Wonder of The Ancient World.  Its magnificence can not really be matched at any other carved rock location in the world.  It remains unique in almost every aspect, offering succor to the historian, anthropologist, archeologist, geologist, architect and naturalist.  If this awe inspring attraction is not on your Bucket List, you have serious discernment issues.

The heralded walls, peaks and petroglyphs of Wadi Rum are conveniently on the return to Aqaba from Petra.  It is however, not your standard driving destination.  The terrain requires a 4WD vehicle, with tires that can be inflated or deflated to fit the sand conditions of its varied terrain.  My driver, Selah, says he knows such a driver with such a vehicle who will provide a good price.  They are old friends from high school.

We arrive in the habitable part of Wadi Rum just outside the Visitor Center.  I am immediately amused to see camels raiding a trash dumpster in the parking lot there.  The village of Wadi Rum itself consists of several hundred Bedouin inhabitants with black goat-hair tents and concrete houses and sand buggies or four wheel vehicles.  There are segregated schools, one each for boys and another for girls, and a few shops.

I am introduced to yet another Mohammed as my new driver.  We have approximately three hours before sunset to make the rounds and see as much of the famous valley as possible.  Mohammed sports a huge smile, and is quick to get into friendly exchanges and back slapping mode.  He tells me how much he likes Americans.  Rather than waiting at the Visitor Center for us Saleh decides to go along for the ride.

We first ride out to see a number of stone-lined irrigation ditches, fed for hundreds of years by 17 natural springs in the stony rubble pile of one of the numerous rock faces that make Wadi Rum appear from a distance like Zion National Park in Utah.  Its huge reddish, rose colored, and white pitted rock faces dominating the skyline.  A short walk from there leads us to the site of well preserved ancient rock carved petroglyphs just out of reach on a nearby series of boulders.

These petroglyphs are located in Khaz'ali Canyon in Wadi Rum.  They depict humans and antelopes and a number of undecipherable hieroglyphic symbols dating back to Thamudic pre-Arabic times (4^th century BC to 3^rd century AD).  Mohammed is anxious to depart for a customary tea ceremony, so there is little time to linger.

He parks his vehicle, and lets me off near a small stream which begins and ends inside a deep wall fissure between two giant rock faces.  I thought there might be some explanation attendant with what I was seeing and perhaps even its significance.  Mohammed instead elects to stay in his Land Rover to smoke.

When I return, he takes me to an oversized black and gold Bedouin commercial tent 100 meters distant.  Further introductions are made to a group of his friends.  We perform the usual greetings and salutations.  Tea is poured.  Once again, I am told how much Americans are appreciated in these parts.  Mohammed disappears.  More tea is offered.  It is difficult to refuse.  My three hours is winding down rapidly.  Where is Mohammed?

After four cups of tea, my driver finally returns.  I am a little played out by now.  He insists on having another smoke before departing.  “Have some more tea,” he suggests.  Finally we are off.  And after ten minutes, stop again.  “This is your place,” he says, and grins widely.  “This is where Orenz came through the desert to Aqaba.”   He then makes a sweeping movement with his hand to illustrate a broad desert crossroads of two intersecting valleys behind us.

It takes me a moment to catch up.  I understand him to mean that Lawrence.  T.E. Lawrence. The famous junior British military officer better known as Lawrence of Arabia.  Leader of the Arab Revolt of 1917-1918 that wrested control of Palestine, Jordan and Arabia from the Ottoman Turks during WW I and helping to turn the tide of war in the mideast toward the British.

It is further explained that the desert plain upon which I stand is the famous terrain from which Lawrence, leading armed Bedouins on camelback, attacked Aqaba from its desert back door – an approach thought to be suicidal in military terms – earning the young officer a reputation for turning the impossible into regular fetes of military “can do.”  I learn seconds later the film “Lawrence of Arabia” was filmed in 1961 on this same ground.  I take in the entire scene with great delight.  I have always been a fan of both my namesake the officer, and the movie.

We depart once again.  I ask Mohammed to speed up, and cover more ground if possible.  But ten minutes later we stop once again.  This time he must pray.  I momentarily grit my teeth and bide my tongue.  When he returns, I intone: “No more stopping.  We are not making enough progress.  I’m paying for three hours of tour, and we’ve only been on the road a total of 45 minutes.  There is much more to see here and I’m viewing way too little of it.”

Mohammed is taken back by this.  He pauses.  “No, you have paid for only three stops (a topic we never discussed, since his friend Saleh made all arrangements).  To see more you would have to take time for the full-day tour.  We can’t do that tonight.  You can return perhaps tomorrow.  You have seen the major highlights, the things most people want to see in Wadi Rum.”

“No, Mohammed, we never put a limit on stops.  In fact, I don’t want to stop.  Just keep going.  We drive without stopping any more until close to dusk, and then return.  I want my full three hours worth.”  At this juncture he stopped.  His eyes blazed, and he started cursing.

“I never liked you from the start,” he hissed.  “You are too demanding.  I have already made more stops for you than I do for any other tourists.  If you want more, you pay more.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” I deliberated.  “I don’t want you to stop at all!  I want you to keep moving.  I want to see all there is to see until it nearly gets dark.  I didn’t come here to watch you smoke, pray, and drink tea.  If you don’t keep driving, I’m not going to pay you in full.”

Mohammed turned toward me and took his hand off the wheel.  The vehicle came to a complete halt.  He turned off the key.  “You have nothing to bargain with, Yankee,” he sneered.  “I will just leave you off in the desert.  I will just leave you right here.”  And with that Saleh threw up his hands, imploring both of us to stop.  “This isn’t supposed to be happening!” he pleaded.

By now I was outraged.  I am supposed to see what I want to see and for the driving time I am paying for.  Not what this driver I don’t even know wants me to see.  “Fine,” I said.  “Go ahead and drop me off here.  I’ll just walk back to the village.  Then I won’t pay you a thing.”  Mohammed turned toward me, daggers in his eyes, carefully considering his options.  “Please … please … let us just work this out,” Saleh begged.

“No, you’re right.  I won’t drop you off.  I think I will just kill you right here.”  And then Mohammed stopped, letting the flashing darkness of his eyes finish his speech.  Saleh put his hands to his temples and rocked back and forth in his seat.  “Oh God no!” he repeated, over and over.  “This isn’t the way it is supposed to be.”

I prepared to hop out of the vehicle, confident I could find my way back to the village and that he would not be able to run me over on the return trip.  Mohammed jumped on his cell phone and made a quick call in Arabic.  We continued at a standoff.  I felt temporarily safer at close range in the vehicle.  Especially knowing Saleh was still inside.

Minutes later, another Land Rover pulled up.  Two male passengers alighted from the Cruiser, and walked in a semi-circle as if to close in behind me from opposite directions.  I could not tell if they were armed.  Saleh begged Mohammed to work something out, refusing to take his hands off his friend’s shoulders.  “Please … please … please!” he begged once again.

As the two additional riders moved in closer, Mohammed turned to me with great confidence.  “So, Yankee, how do you think we should end this?” he demanded.  I answered slowly, and as devoid of anger as I could muster at the moment.  “I’m not sure.  I really don’t want to see any more of Wadi Rum any longer.  Why don’t you just take me straight back to the village now.  No more tour.  I’ll pay you in advance.  We’ll be done with it then.”

Saleh was sobbing.  He was useless now.  The two newly arrived friends circled in a little closer, checking Mohammed’s grasp of the situation, if not making sure he at least was not threatened.  Mohammed thought my offer over for a minute, and said: “You pay me now.  You pay me in full.  And you pay the park taxes (a new twist).  We go now.”

I slowly counted out the money and paid in full, making sure Saleh got his hands on the Jordanian dinars exchanged and had adequate time to count before passing them on.  We rode back to the village in silence.  Saleh kept babbling optimistic happy talk, as if tongue flapping equated to resolution. 

Any consideration of further time in Jordan ended at the village parking lot, and the safe return to Saleh’s car.  I didn’t know who was lurking nearby, or might follow, so I loudly wished Mohammed well, proclaiming “Perhaps we had a misunderstanding.”  But upon my return to Aqaba, the situation was immediately reported to the Jordanian Police with the help of Yafko Hotel employees Tamer and Rami.  I insisted Saleh corroborate my story and provide Mohammed’s full name and contact information, before he got paid.

After that, I related spurious options about next heading out for the Saudi border, or to a Bedouin camp, or to the Jordanian side of the Dead Sea, or up to the Jordanian capitol of Amman … all the while knowing I would be hastily leaving directly for Israel first thing in the morning.