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!

Halas business!

"Halas business!" That cry was a sign to everyone that the workday was over.

Today was the last day of excavation. Hopefully I’ll have a bit more time this week to catch up on writing this. 

It's been long, dirty, maddening, and fun. I've learned a lot, some of it about archaeology, some of it about myself. More on that later, though. First, Petra.

The Bedouin

                Students are a nigh-endless font of labour, but there just aren’t enough of us here to dig and haul away all the dirt at a reasonable pace. For that task, we have some of the local Bedouin. 

                In Jordan, Bedouin form up to 40% of the population. Within the cities, open spaces are left where they can camp and graze their livestock. Out in the country, they have semi-permanent settlements, often composed of tents and cobbled-together shacks made from whatever was available. It is not uncommon to see a Bedouin herder walking his goats across the street to get to better grazing land. They are a tribal people, and things can get sticky if the site employs too many from one family and not enough from another.

                The Bedouin who help out at the dig site have been working with the team for quite some years. Only the men come up to haul guffahs (baskets made from bolted-together sections of tire) but both boys and girls are allowed up on the tell to bring their fathers, brothers, and cousins second breakfast around 9:00 in the morning.

                Despite the language barrier—most of us know little Arabic, and they know little English—they manage to make wisecracks, banter with the men, ask the women if they have babies yet (and if not, would they like some?) and praise or chastise us for properly filling or overfilling the guffahs. The little Arabic we know allows us to communicate in a similar manner, and humour makes it through the cracks. There are joking requests to toss pottery (or other archaeologists) into the wadi ("fukar al wadi" or "Steve al wadi," for instance), but they know better than to toss the pottery. The jury is still out on the archaeologists. 

      Sometimes, language isn't needed at all; one of them was building a rather phallic monument this afternoon, using objects found in a nearby square.

                Our square’s Bedouin is Mifla (on the right, seen here with one of his relations). Adults and children alike love having their picture taken.

                One of the families has hereditary near-deafness, and so a type of sign-language has developed among the Bedouin near the tell. (At the time of writing, I am unaware of whether or not it is used outside that area.)  One fellow doesn‘t seem to care that he can hardly hear himself, let alone anything else. He takes the goats out onto a low hill, and shouts incoherently at the top of his lungs. We have no idea what he’s up to, but he seems to be having a great time.

                The braying of their donkeys and the raucous crowing of the roosters makes the morning a lively place at the tell as the sun rises. The goats don’t usually get obnoxious until a more reasonable hour.

                The camp is a ramshackle collection of livestock, mismatched tents, and buildings, but it has a single modern amenity: spotted by one of my co-excavators, there is, sitting on a stack of rocks next to one of the tents, a satellite dish.

Weekend trip #3: Central Jordan

                We visited three sites in Central Jordan today: Umm Ar Rasas, Wadi Mujib, and Dhiban.

                Umm Ar Rasas is the site of an ancient fortress and of at least sixteen churches, and contains Roman, Byzantine, and Muslim ruins. The site is massive, full of crumbling walls outlived by their arches, with church floors covered in sand and plastic to protect the mosaics beneath as restoration work creeps on.

                They were rather fond of their plaster detailing as well:

                Fascinating as the fortress was, neither it nor anything else seen on our tours thus far could compare to Wadi Mujib. It has been called Jordan’s Grand Canyon, and it is every bit deserving of the title.

                The pictures do not do justice to the majesty of the wadi. 

                After that, most of my photos of Dhiban, the site where the Mesha Stela was found, would be anticlimactic. That being the case, have some wild puppies in the ruins of one of Moab’s greatest cities:

                Finally, as promised, the hats: