One year, we went to Jordan for Christmas. Why? you may well ask. I mean, it’s in the desert and it’s mid-winter. Well, the reason for the trip was that the kids were living and working in Aqaba. Secondly, as we hadn’t been there, why not?
The Queen Alia International Airport, just outside the capital, Amman, is an ultra-modern facility, which I suspect becomes busy with the departure or arrival of the couple of international aircraft that fly in daily or weekly. The process of disembarking, passport control, and customs was slick and friendly, and before we knew it we were ushered into the back of a luxury Mercedes sedan by a pleasant Jordanian chauffeur who spoke a little broken English.
We sped down the Desert Highway that follows the Jordanian section of the Spice Route of Biblical times, passing Petra and Wadi Rum, before arriving in the port city of Aqaba about four hours later.
Occasionally, along the road, we would come across folk in their thawbs (robes) on the back of camels, and in the distance we could make out the occasional Bedouin tented camp in the desert. Sights so far removed from the world we lived in.
Seeing the family was of course fabulous. It was a happy reunion and there were lots of tales to exchange. The boys were a lot younger then, and were attending a local international school. They had learnt a few Arabic words, which they took great delight in sharing with us.
Aqaba lies on the Gulf of Aqaba across the way from Eilat on the most southerly tip of Israel. The area is a popular summer holiday destination with a few exotic hotels and beaches, and the area is renowned for its scuba diving. But most places were virtually empty while we were there because it was the winter. Notwithstanding, the temperature was mild in the daytime and only dropped below freezing at night. In summer, one cannot walk on the roads or pavements in the midday for fear of the heat penetrating the soles of your shoes and burning your feet.
Taking in the sights and sounds of the Arabic world was fascinating. Driving the roads of Aqaba was frightening. Our daughter-in-law, Leani, had learnt to deal with this driving lark though, and fearlessly pushed her way through the fast-moving traffic like there was no tomorrow. It became apparent very quickly that there was no place for wussies on the streets of Jordan!
Our son, Gary, organized an outing for Ann and me to Wadi Rum, which involved accompanying an Arab tour guide into the desert to experience the way of the Bedouin. Wadi Rum, originally called Jabal al-Mazmar (the mountain of the plague) was made famous by Lawrence of Arabia (TE Lawrence).
Once away from the roads and deserted, tented, tourist camps, we found ourselves in a strange, desolate, and intimidating landscape. It is clear that Lawrence was immediately taken by the land from his description of his first foray into the valley of Rum in his book Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
The hills on the right grew taller and sharper, a fair counterpart of the other side, which straightened itself to one massive rampart of redness. They drew together until only two miles divided them: and then, towering gradually till their parallel parapets must have been a thousand feet above us, ran forward in an avenue for miles. The crags were capped in nests of domes, less hotly red than then body of the hill; rather grey and shallow. They gave the finishing semblance of Byzantine architecture to this irresistible place: this processional way greater than imagination.
Our guides took us to a number of vantage points throughout the day, from where we were able to take in the views and barrenness of the place. We followed part of the trail of the ancient Nabatean spice traders through the ‘Mountains of the Moon’. By midday, we came across an isolated Bedouin settlement occupied by a single man. He welcomed us into the tent and we sat around an open fire, while our host prepared a traditional tea made with dried thyme, cinnamon sticks, and herbs (habuck and marmaraya). Outside, his many camels stood or laid on the red sand, their jaws constantly gnawing around in a slow rhythmic fashion. On what, we were unsure.
We climbed back into the open 4x4, whose padded seats offered minimal comfort, and headed to Barrah Siq, a deep canyon which runs for about five kilometres between huge sandstone rock walls where the ever-grateful Arabians of the day carved the face of Lawrence of Arabia into the rock face in his honour.
The day was long, and it was planned that we would attend a traditional Bedouin dinner out in the desert. But the hours of bumpy rides began to take their toll as the afternoon began fading and with the temperature dropping rapidly, we decided to call off the dinner experience. It was down to me to try to politely decline the invitation to the local Jordanian driver and the tour guide who didn’t speak any English. After a few moments and using my best Arabic sign language, it appeared that I may have gotten the message across, although we were unsure if it had been received with the same level of goodwill which I had tried to convey. The incoherent guttural sounds of the discourse between the driver and his colleague and the constant waving of arms and hands, suggested to us that the driver had taken offence.
We remained completely unaware of what had been decided when the driver eventually brought the vehicle to a halt in middle of a wide-open desert plain and beckoned us to disembark. Once on the ground, he then drove off, turning in a wide sweep towards the mountain range to our left and finally disappeared into the far distance.
We stood in the middle of Wadi Rum staring at the rapidly waning cloud of dust from the truck’s departure, wondering whether we had inadvertently re-ignited the Arab Revolt of 1916.
Where is he going? asked Ann in a trembling voice.
Fok weet alleen, is a delightful Afrikaans expression that means I really don’t have a clue, sweetheart, (or words to that effect). I’m sure that he probably has to tell someone to stop slow cooking the goats ’cos dinner is off!
But why didn’t he take us with him? came the logical retort.
‘Stumped’, was a word that came to mind at that point. I took out my phone, thinking that I could put in a call to Gary to come and rescue us, or alternatively, log in a route out of there on Google Maps. Alas, I discovered to my horror that there are no mobile network signals in the Arabian Desert.
And so, we stood in the late afternoon in the utter silence of the desert, fearful of moving anywhere in case our tour guide and driver did return, and nervously contemplating what plan B could be if they didn’t.
It seemed a lifetime before we saw the dust from the 4x4’s tyres far in the distance once again, but this time moving rapidly closer, suggesting that our driver had had a change of heart and was returning to take us home. Or, at the least, drop off a bottle of water and point us in the right direction.
We had, of course, been unnecessarily unnerved and somewhat silly. The tour guide picked us up and drove us back to the main tented camp from where we collected our car and bade them farewell, but not after giving them both a well-deserved hug and a kiss on each cheek, being eternally grateful to them for their understanding.
To this day, we don’t know where they went, or why we were left alone while they went about whatever they were about.
It was then decided that the whole family would travel to Amman for a long weekend to visit the big city. All of the preparations were completed, the car filled up, and off we set one morning to climb the one thousand odd metres above sea level to the sixth largest city in the Arab world to experience a city with origins dating back to 7000BC.
But as we drove up the mountain pass and into the city, snow started to fall, and it was announced that the city and the country would be closed down for a week because of an incoming snowstorm.
We spent the night in a luxury hotel before departing for home via the King’s Highway, a route which took us down a steep mountain pass to the Dead Sea and all the way along its eastern shore where the warmer and dryer weather made the journey easier and more pleasant.
Because everywhere was officially closed due to the unexpected snow we were unable to visit Petra, or climb Mount Nebo, the elevated ridge from where Moses looked out over the Promised Land.
However, the trip was still a thrilling and enchanting one and continues to live in the memories of the bushman and Ann of Africa.
Ila liqa’ qarib (Until we meet again).