Jordan- Petra and Wadi Rum

In what turned out to be a jam-packed few days, two friends and I left from our exam to catch the last bus to Eilat, the southernmost city in Israel. We arrived late at night, crashed in a hostel, ready to depart early the next morning for Jordan.

I’ll skip the unnecessarily lengthy and trying process of crossing the border from Israel to Jordan to our arrival in Petra, where we spent exactly four quick hours in order to be in Wadi Rum in time for the sunset. There isn’t much to say about Petra beyond ‘mirabile visu’ -incredible to behold. The park is a pretty cool place naturally, with surreal moon-like canyons and walls. A couple thousand years ago a people called the Nabateans lived there and carved immense buildings, tombs, sculptures into the walls.

From there we taxied to Wadi Rum, a ‘protected area’ – something between a national park and Indian Reservation. Park for the immaculate scenery, reservation because it is inhabited by Bedouin, Jordan’s indigenous desert people. (Bedouin means just ‘desert people’, so the term applies to tribes all over the middle east). The situation is different from Indian reservations in the US, though, because as far as I can tell there isn’t the same history of exploitation and strife with the government in Jordan. They live seemingly comfortably off the combination of the land and tourism.

I had been skeptical of spending time at a Bedouin camp, thinking that that sort of thing inherently turns the people living there into a sort of spectacle? I was not completely sure of my objection, but ultimately I was proven wrong. When we arrived in Wadi Rum our taxi driver dropped us at an office and announced the man in the doorway as “Zedan, the tallest Bedouin in Wadi Rum.” He certainly was tall, and beautiful. He dressed in traditional Bedouin-wear (worn by about 80% of men we saw, and everyone over the age of 25 or so): a ‘mundilah’ or red and white scarf fastened to the head with a black headband and a ‘thawb’, the ankle-length long-sleeved tight-fitting robe with a little collar. He had long eyelashes, a luxurious mustache, and a knowing smile.

Zedan greeted us proudly in English and ushered us into the jeep. We set off bumpily into the desert toward the camp where we would be staying. The village out of sight but not yet at the camp, we stopped at a point comfortably distant from every mountain. Zedan announces, “Now you make take a photograph.” We got out and realized why he had been so insistent that we arrive before sunset: it was gloriously setting behind one of the mountains.

At this point I could have guessed what I slowly came to realize: the reason tourism in Wadi Rum doesn’t feel exploitative is that while Zedan is 100% Bedouin, he is also 100% businessman. He was firmly rooted in and extremely proud of his heritage, but also understood the outside world and how to most profitably exist in it. Driven by a desire to share his culture, he also had an almost alarming business sense for how to best cater to tourists.

There were six of us staying in the camp that night – the three of us, a man from Liverpool, and two young Japanese guys. When we got there we all lounged on benches looking West in the waning sunlight until dinner was announced. We gathered around to watch Selim, Zedan’s cousin, unearth our dinner having been cooking in a pit all afternoon. He pulled it chicken, onions, and potato-halves grilled on a tiered tray. We sat cross legged along low tables and dined. After dinner Zedan brewed sweet tea for us, lit his cigarette, and then pulled out his rababah (one-stringed bowed instrument) to play, ruefully apologizing that his drum accompanist was in town that night.

Afterward he talked with us for a bit before suddenly declaring, “We must go outside to see the stars.” See the stars indeed – they were the brightest and clearest I’ve seen. The four of us sat on a ledge and exchanged stories while watching for shooting stars. Zedan takes pride in the people from all over the world he’s met, as well as his family history. My friend Gui asked him at length about his feelings toward the King of Jordan, much to his amusement (“You have already asked me many questions, my friend; give the girls a chance”).

In the morning we rolled out of our sandy cots close to sunrise. I munched on pita, wandered around a bit, took a makeshift shower under a sink (sinks in this part of the world often have very tall faucets, conveniently allowing me to wash my hair even when a shower isn’t possible). Around 8:30 we gathered our things and got in the jeep with Selim, our tour guide for the morning. The sky, scenery, morning were exhilarating. We bounced around the desert, stopping now and then to climb gentler rock faces and dunes, and ascend the rocky face of Lawrence’s Spring. The tour was incredible, a stream of beautiful and untouched scenes. We saw some hardy hikers, a few Bedouin on camels, one or two other camps. Selim slowly opened to our queries, at one point proudly pointing out a steep rock face he and some friends have climbed. By the end I felt that we had a good glimpse of the desert, and a small feel for life there.

Selim deliver us to Zedan’s office, from where we had been promised a short camel ride. Zedan had told us a bit about camels, at one point mentioning their tendency to wander away now and then, sometimes for years, but always coming back. Surprised at this casual revelation, someone asked what he does if he should need his camel for something. He said that after a couple days of asking and looking, one can usually track the camel down again. My friend Jessica mused that this shows a difference in the culture of possession there- in the west one would never abide by a camel who wanders off, let alone spend so much time searching him down again. It shows an easiness with time, and a respect for whatever even intermittent gifts the desert offers.

Zedan called up three boys to be our camel escorts. They happily complied, arguing and joking among themselves the whole time while licking popsicles, presumably funded by their half hour’s wage. We made our way toward some temple ruins right outside the village, joltingly undulating the whole way. The camels were mostly agreeable, stopping only a couple times to snack on brush or cardboard. Although we moved at a leisurely stroll, the ride was fairly uncomfortable- I have a hard time imagining the camel races Zedan mentioned. A fun experience, though, and pleasant way to end the afternoon. We arrived for the last time at Zedan’s office where we were once more treated to tea, bid farewell, and handed over to an old friend Munir, now a taxi driver. Dizzy with gratitude to Zedan for our experience in the desert, we piled in set out for Israel.