Akko is a great little town. I’m awoken to the sounds of prayer coming from the mosque’s PA system. It’s a lot more soothing than the blaring of sirens and really for the first time, I feel a long way from the conflict. As it’s a Saturday, ie Shabat (sabbath), a huge number of Jewish visitors are flocking to a predominantly Arab town. The souk (market) is a lively affair, and the whole town leaves me marvelling at the camaraderie and spirit that exist between the people here. They all seem to know each very well and as a result it’s a warm, friendly place.
The drive eastward to Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee is a scenic one. It’s a less arid region with small towns of mostly cubular (is that a word?...it is now), sandstone-coloured buildings clinging to the edges of the hills and sprawling in to the valleys below. The sea itself is really a small lake by Canadian standards, but it’s a picturesque setting with mountains rising up above on all sides.
Later, I learn of serious unrest in Egypt, particularly Cairo. Fantastic news, as I’ll be there in a few days. I’ve already cancelled plans of climbing Mount Sinai and spending a night in a bedouin camp, as it’s deemed too dangerous to travel in that region presently, so I really hope the situation doesn’t worsen.
An early start with a good breakfast (the food in Israel hasn’t been the best so far) and a stroll along the lakefront, are followed by a bus trip to the border with Jordan. I approach the border patrol only to realise that my passport is still in the safe at the hotel an hour’s drive away. Much frustration ensues. Two hours later I’m back at the same place with one important difference.
The process at the border is shambolic at best and I emerge two hours later squinting in to the Jordanian sun. During all the waiting around I meet Nick, a young chap from England who has just spent 6 months in the West Bank, living behind the wall that separates the occupied territory from Israel. He tells me some fairly gruesome stories of Israeli military brutality against the Palestinians with whom he was living. Tales of torture and imprisonment of children as young as 8 years old are not easy to hear without having utter contempt for the aggression employed by the Israeli forces. Nick himself was tear-gassed the day before. His description of the feeling being akin to chopping a really strong onion lightened the mood a little.
We share a cab to Amman, the capital, and he continues on to the airport. He’s clearly excited to see his girlfriend for the first time in half a year. She happens to be from Barrie, Ontario. Big planet, small world.
At last, Petra. Shockingly early start and my excitement-induced insomnia has struck again. At least I won’t miss the 6.15am bus. Jordan’s most visited tourist destination and one of the modern Seven Wonders of the World, is located in a mountainous, arid region 3 hours south of the capital. The small town of Wadi Musa (Valley of Moses) buzzes with predominantly tourist-related activity. I’m glad to be here during the low season as the crowds are not insignificant.
Stunning, magnificent, awe-inspiring are grossly inadequate terms to describe Petra. Walking through The Siq is my favourite part of the experience and when it opens up to reveal the great Treasury it really does take my breath away. I make it as far as the recently-discovered Temple and I’m ready to call it a day. This is when the fun begins.
I stop at Ibraheim’s Coffee Shop and start chatting with a few of the Bedouin locals. They are extremely engaging, with a wicked sense of humour. I’m invited to drink tea with them, an important part of being truly welcomed in Bedouin culture, and I’m honoured to. This is why I love travelling so much, as I learn how the Jordanian Government entrust the Bedouin people with maintaining the essence of Petra, as opposed to the supposedly more-refined Musa-Wadians, who care more about lining their pockets with the tourist dollar. Many of the Bedouin live in caves within the City itself and have done so for many generations. Somewhat surprisingly most of them are married to Western women, including my new pal Ahmood, who will soon be living in his cave with his wife, previously from an affluent suburb of Montreal.
Ahmood takes me to the Bedouin village, a side of Petra that not many see. As the sun sets, the temperature drops sharply and my Bedouin buddy decides that the best way to keep warm is by drinking whiskey. The story of the rest of the night is best told in person.
After a groggy start I make my way back down to Petra. I can see why people move here from all corners of the World, The Siq has the ability to enchant on a daily basis. I run into my friends and they decide it’s time for me to take my first donkey ride all the way to the Monastery, arguably Petra’s most recognisable building. It’s an interesting journey, as my donkey seems to have a complete inability to travel in a straight line, which is particularly disconcerting when we’re climbing narrow, steep stairways with drops of several hundred feet on either side. I christen him Snake Donkey and decide to trek back on foot as walking down stairs is not Snake’s forte. I’m sorry to bid my friends farewell, they’ve really helped me understand the life of the Bedouin and the charms of Petra. I vow to go back, and some day I will, with a real camera.
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