Roll credits

It's done.

I'm home, safe and sound. The flight back was long and uneventful, but full of good movies. Once some rest and time with The Mr. has happened, I'll post a bit on Castle Karak and toss up a few more pictures from the trip.

Meat and Fire is still on for August 13; I look forward to seeing you there.

All aboard the Giant Red Dot, reprise

“Let them sleep who do not know the final day is here. The very last, and we leave at dawn.” –Laibach, B Mashina 

        

                In a short while, we’ll be heading for the airport. The flight back will take close to twelve hours; if all goes well, I’ll sleep through most of that. Once in Montreal, it’ll be another few hours of waiting, then a relatively short flight home. 

                Jordan is a fantastic country. If you get the chance to visit, it’s well worth the time and expense. The people are wonderful, the food is an adventure, and the landscape is breathtaking.

                I had the good fortune to dig with a wonderful group of people under the guidance of some very fine minds. There were amazing bits and rough spots all around, but in the end, we’re all coming home more experienced, more confident, and somewhat more dehydrated than when we arrived. 

                See you on the ground!

What a long, strange trip it's been

"Only one day is left, only one day. We are leaving the others; we are going away."-- Laibach, B Mashina

Camp Week is wrapping up. We’ve finished photographing, drawing, counting, washing, boxing, packing, shuffling, and captioning; tomorrow, we load stuff up and take it to either ACOR (the American Center of Oriental Research) in Amman, or to the Madaba Museum. After that, we’ll have time to play Tetris with our luggage and recent purchases. At about 11:00 at night, the bus will arrive (hopefully it will be the ParrotSquid Express, so named for the unintentionally-tentacled stuffed parrot hanging from the rear-view mirror) and we will head to the airport. In the wee hours of Friday morning, we will board the plane to Montreal, and from there, a handful of us will board the flight back to K-W. 

There will probably be a couple of follow-up posts when I get home, sharing some of the pictures I haven’t put up while overseas because of bandwidth limitations.

                It’s nice to go away, but it’s even nicer to come home. Jordan is awesome, but I miss my friends and family. Thank you for following my adventures. I look forward to seeing all of you (insofar as this is possible) when I return.

Bladders of Steel: Yousef's Tea-drinking Competition

If you go past the Church of the Map and turn left down Carpet Alley, there is a little rug store run by a man named Yousef. Visitors are welcomed into his shop with a warm smile and a handshake, and, more often than not, offered tea.

               

                Tea at Yousef’s has, over the years, become a traditional part of several digs based in Madaba. The tea is made in steel kettles over a propane burner; water and a small cane field’s worth of sugar are added to the kettle and heated to boiling, whereupon the teabags are added, suspended by their strings for about thirty seconds, then dunked a  few more times before the tea is considered ready to serve. It is considered polite to allow the tea to cool some before drinking it.

                Out of this tradition rose another: the tea-drinking competition. Every year, before the end of the dig, archaeologists go bladder-to-bladder to see how many cups of tea they can drink in one sitting before having to pee or having to throw up. The record number this year was 40 cups (about 2L, give or take), held by a member of the Tell Madaba dig group. We were determined that one of our own would break the record. Within our group there was competition as well, Tom and Sebastien each determined to beat the other.

                After supper, about twenty or so of us met at Yousef’s. The existence of a trophy startled one participant. “There’s a trophy?”

                “What, you think this is a joke?” replied Yousef, stern and straight-faced for a moment before grinning.

Everyone had at least a few cups; those of us competing kept track with a pen, either on paper or on our hands or arms. As we drank, people—mostly the men, interestingly enough-- tried on belly-dancing outfits. (There are some very interesting pictures floating around.) As the hours and cups passed, people gradually left. As 10:00 approached, it was down to six of us. Tom and Sebastien were neck and neck; the rest of us were at least ten cups behind (I put back a respectable 30).

                It took as much room as his bladder could muster, but Tom was the first to cross the victory line. With wild eyes and a declaration of, “Caesar is victorious!” he downed the last of his 41^st cup. 

Sebastien, not to be outdone, put back a 41^st as well, prompting Tom to reach for a 42^nd. Sebastien, relentless, did the same. They quickly decided on a tie because they were both about to burst. In the end, no matter how stalwart the heart, how keen the mind, or how strong the arm, the bladder is the great equalizer.

But it's a DRY heat!

Yesterday got a little ridiculous in the heat department. To my friends and family back home, I can empathize with you: the heat-wave isn’t just hitting North America. I’ve heard from locals that it’s not supposed to get this hot until mid- to late August. Yesterday, it was up to 40 C or so in town, but it was worse in the field.

 A few people had gone back to the site to touch up drawings or gather some additional data. At the tell, it went up to 49 C. It was so hot that one of the long cloth/plastic tape measures began to sag and melt as someone was working on a section drawing.

Today is supposed to get hotter. Joy. At least it’s not humid, which is a blessing. 

Yesterday was also the day when Jordanian students found out whether they had been accepted into college/university or if they were forever doomed to take up, in all likelihood, the family business. Understandably, this is an emotional time. People drive around like maniacs, friends hanging out the windows, celebrating (or not, as the case may be) at the tops of their lungs. They let off fireworks at odd times, and some get a little gun-happy.

As we were taking photos of stone tools from a previous year, a series of loud bangs came from outside, echoing over the flat rooftops. The team’s logistics man, a former army engineer, looked up. “That’s probably fireworks.” The next series of explosive sound came in staccato bursts. “That wasn’t.” He nodded appreciatively, listening to a third burst of sound, likely from the same source as the second. “I’d like to have one of those. Semi-automatic.” At the end-of-season party later that night, he showed us the bullet that had landed in the hotel’s courtyard earlier in the day. It brought home once again just how different things are over here. 

Thoughts of bullets and melting tapes were lost in conversation, laughter, dancing, and much drunken singing along to “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” and “All the Small Things.” Some of the people from the Tell Madaba dig dropped by, bringing a speaker that dwarfed the ones we had; in true Jordanian fashion, a very loud good time was had by all. This morning, I suspect, hangovers are had by many.

Upcoming Meat and Fire Night

You folks who know The Mr. and I well enough to know where we live (by invitation, not by some bizarre stalkerish behaviour) are invited to a Meat and Fire night on August 13th. You're welcome to arrive any time after 5:00 p.m., and things will go until people get tired and decide to fall over or go home. If you'd like to bring a food or beverage of some sort to share, that would be most appreciated, though by no means mandatory.

Anyone needing crash space should get in touch with me by email, or run it past The Mr. if that's more convenient. For those of you too far away to make it, we'll be thinking of you.

Petra, Part 2

                After making it back down from the High Place, K (the Saudi student I’d mentioned in an earlier post) and I meandered around a bit, looking for the way up to The Monastery. As we meandered, this adorable little fellow ran past and tried to convince us to save 15% on car insurance:

     Upon finding out that there were about a thousand stairs between us and the monument, K opted to hire a couple of donkeys for us to make the trip up a little easier. Let me tell you, that’s an experience and a half. Donkeys are relatively placid, surefooted creatures, except for the one we saw freaking out over who knows what, landing himself in the oleander with an embarrassed look on his face. There are no pictures from the way up, since that time was spent clinging white-knuckled to the saddle-- I swear it shifted a good eight inches on the way up—and trying to relax enough to enjoy the view. 

                There is very little that is scarier than a donkey slipping.

                Shortly before reaching the top, our guide stopped the donkeys and bade us go the rest of the way on foot, since the donkeys couldn’t go the rest of the way with passengers. We finished our trek upwards and saw this:

                Like the Treasury, it is gorgeous on the outside and empty on the inside. K and I got some lemon juice with mint—I will make this at Meat and Fire Night, if folks would like—and went to relax in a lounge-cave. There were kittens!

                Mamacat came over when she saw that K was eating Pringles. She nibbled an offered chip, then wandered away for a moment, only to return followed by her brood. They boarded K in the quest for more crunchy salty goodness, stopping only when he led them out of the lounge-cave and gave them some chips elsewhere. The kittens rushed about like hummingbirds on crack, hiding in the camel saddles (those knobby things between the lounge areas) and playing in a visitor’s untended sandal.

                We decided to head back down on foot, since down was undoubtedly easier than up and there were a number of Bedouin craft/souvenir tents along the route. One older woman offered us tea; it was sweet and redolent with cinnamon and cardamom. Good manners dictated that we wait until the tea cooled some before drinking it, so she and K struck up a conversation in fast-paced Arabic. K explained to me at one point that she was bemoaning the lack of tourism, the river reduced to a trickle by the Arab Spring revolutions. While I couldn’t understand her words, her tone of voice and mannerisms were very familiar, particularly when K attempted to refuse a third cup of tea—she waved away his protests and poured it for him anyways. Suddenly, sitting in front of me in a black robe and colourful head-scarf, was my aunt! They are, if I’m any judge of age, contemporaries, and with similar cynical humour, strength of opinion, and sense of hospitality to those they call family and friend (K, being an Arab, was automatically family).

                Thanking her for her hospitality and the wonderful tea, we set off again down the stairs. It seemed a bit perilous in spots to me, places where the stairs were mostly worn away, but we made it down safely. No matter where we went at Petra, the colours of the sandstone were absolutely stunning.

                Upon reaching the ground, we met up with some of the rest of the group and went to look at the remains of the Great Temple.

                The amphitheatre-looking place is within the remains of the temple, and is called the Theatron. Sorry, Michael Bay, it’s not a Transformer.

                After the Great Temple, we climbed up (yay, more stairs!) to the Royal Tombs.

                Some of the group climbed higher, but a few of us who are not part mountain goat chose to remain on the stairs and take in the view.

                

                By the time the rest of the group came back down, it was about 4:00 and getting ridiculously hot. We made our way out of the rose-red city, bringing with us sore muscles, tons of pictures, a few souvenirs, and memories that will last a lifetime.

Petra, Part 1

This is going to be a long one, folks. You might want to get comfortable.

                There are many places in the world, remnants of civilizations past, which stir the soul and excite the imagination. Petra, described by John William Burgon as “A rose-red city half as old as time,” is one such place. It’s appeared in movies (some better than others) and artwork for ages, a popular tourist destination that is definitely not for the faint of heart or weak of lung.

                Last weekend, I got to explore it for myself.

                About 100 metres from the gate is the Petra Moon Hotel. It’s a gorgeous establishment with amazing rooms, a sumptuous breakfast, dynamite service, and very, very cozy beds. They’re just finishing renovations, so our group of 21 got to be the first to try out the new rooms, sleeping in beds never before slept in, complete with down-filled duvets. It was glorious. (You wouldn’t think duvets would be comfortable in a desert country, but A/C is the great equalizer.)

                Next morning, just before 7:00, we headed for the gates, passing by a string of souvenir booths that had not yet opened. Their prey would not be at the watering hole this early in the day. Once inside, we made our way down a stretch of gravel path, watching men prepare some of Petra’s horses for the coming day of work. The handiwork of the Nabataeans was already in evidence, their tombs carved into the sandstone cliffs:

                Further down the trail, we entered the Siq, the high-walled passage leading into Petra. The sandstone was spectacular, colours and patterns and shapes flowing around us. Along the sides of the Siq could be seen the remnants of water channels; the Nabataeans were masters of collecting and conserving water. Here and there, small trees had taken root in crevices, clinging to the sandstone cliff face and reaching for the sun:

                The Treasury came into view at the end of the Siq as if revealed from behind stone curtains. Carved into the cliff, it is probably the best known of Petra’s monuments—it has been shot at by treasure-hunters, hidden the Holy Grail, and caused archaeologists everywhere to curse Michael Bay.

                Not to disappoint anyone, but not only is the Holy Grail not in there, but neither is anything else. It’s rather plain and empty on the inside. The outside, however, is spectacular.

                A few feet away stood the first of many men eager to take us for camel rides. It was a bit too early for that for my taste, but I wanted to get the requisite following-in-grandpa’s-footsteps photo, so I pulled my courage together and got on:

Yes, that look is somewhere between delighted, terrified, and trying to look at several people with cameras at once. The camel wasn’t the only one feeling that way!

                From there, we headed up to the High Place of Sacrifice. When they call it the High Place, they’re really not kidding. I have never climbed so many stairs in my life. It’s one of the highest points in Petra, taking about an hour to reach the top. The stairs are worn in many places and decidedly perilous in others. The view, however, is spectacular.

                The view from the top, while terrifying, is equally breathtaking.

                The climb down was pretty amazing as well, not to mention heart-stopping. Up is not so bad, since little looking down is required. Down, however, requires a great deal of looking down. Most of you probably know that I have a nigh-paralyzing fear of heights. I can’t so much as go up a stepladder without triggering a fight-or-flight response. Going up and coming back down was a challenge to myself, trying to overcome that. I hate being afraid of things.

                Some images from the way back down:

There were quite a few cats living at the site, all of them tiny and narrow and desperate for petting.

   

             At the foot of the stairs was The Tomb of the Roman Soldier.

             It sent a shiver down my spine. The worn and broken carvings still show elements of their strength and glory, reminding all who pass that the men who once lay within were lions in their own right, deserving of respect and remembrance.

     Stay tuned for part 2!