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!

Thought for food

Clawfoot was right: sometimes the tastiest things come from a cart (or stand) at the side of the road. 

            There are two shwarma places within about five minutes of the hotel. They are both delicious, though the closer of the two is better. 

For those unfamiliar with shwarma, it goes something like this: Beef being a rarity here, most of the shwarma available is either chicken or lamb, usually chicken. The meat, whatever critter it comes from, is on a massive spit, liberally seasoned with the establishment’s own blend of spices. It cooks slowly all day, and the meat is sliced off thinly as needed. Tzatziki sauce, or a local variant, is spread on a thin, tortilla-like bread. Meat is added, and, depending on where you go, pickled [insert vegetables here]. It is then wrapped up and tossed on a grill, where it is crisped on both sides. It is incredibly delicious, and ridiculously cheap, costing around 1JD (equivalent to about $1.50 CDN).

Digging is going well; we should be getting into the really interesting stuff this week. Our north balk is down, rooms are clear and level. Time now, then, to boldly go where no man has gone for about 2000 years, give or take.

 This is going to be a wild ride.

Thanks, Grandpa.

June 29, 2011

                The scents of the morning drive to the tell have started to become familiar: smoke from recently burnt olive wood, the Madaba dump, the goat pen of that guy who keeps his livestock beside the shop near the speed bump, things like that.  There was a new scent this morning, slightly acidic, a familiar smell somehow, thought I couldn’t place it. As we neared the dig site and I looked up at the sky, it struck me why it seemed that way.

                Few people expect to smell rain in the desert.

                The sky was overcast, heavy clouds obscuring the sun. The smell of rain hung in the air, and the morning breeze was cooler than usual. I am firmly convinced my grandfather is to blame.

                Grandpa Jack was, it seemed, something of a stormbringer. Whether it was pure coincidence or something else, rough weather appeared to follow him when he travelled. It rained and snowed in places where it very rarely does so every time he went abroad, and he was quite the traveller in his day. I can’t recall precisely, but I don’t remember it ever being sunny when he came to visit. He died close to twenty years ago; I’d like to think this is his way of showing approval for being the first of our family to get abroad the way he did, to have an adventure and step outside that comfort zone of hearth and home and loved ones to live a little.

                At the site, we’ve been cleaning the interseasonal debris out of the square. It looks a bit like the north balk—the wall of soil left to separate one square from another—threw up into the rooms just south of it. So far, we’ve found a decent number of potsherds and bone fragments, and even a few objects. It looks like it will be an interesting square.

When cleanup was finished and the time came to begin tearing down the north balk, we got a bit of a surprise. Perhaps foolishly, we had anticipated being able to get at least a little off the top before it got overly crumbly. The balk had other ideas. 

                Tap. Taptap. Scrape scrape WHUMP.

                All hell broke loose before us as a good third of the upper part of the balk came crashing down. Our boots and sinuses were filled with dirt, but we were unharmed. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to it much more gently.