The Long Road Traveled

March 27 From Amman, through Aqaba, to Wadi Rum

Early, so early, no wonder I forgot something. A shame it was my prized sunglasses. I have few material addictions. I am mostly hooked on a steady stream of information. My few concessions to material necessity are those I need for health and comfort, good shoes and something to keep the sun out of my eyes. I discovered my error a mere 200 meters from home, but with the doors locked behind me and no one to stir for at least half an hour I kept on, determined to solve my problem at some later stage of my travels. Hopefully before I arrived in the desert canyons of Wadi Rum.

Sunglasses, Who Mentioned Sunglasses?

A four hour bus ride brought me to the sunny seaside resort destination of Aqaba, Jordan's sole connection to the waters of the Red Sea. A rapidly evolving mix of the hyper resort and a massive port the city is tailoring itself to suit the sun and dive crowd of upper class Arabs and westerners that can afford it. I had little over an hour to collect some provisions and escape via public bus to the quiet of Wadi Rum.

I first tackled sunglasses at a covered market swamped with cheap clothes and salesmen loudly hawking them to the throngs of residents and tourists. I passed up repeated offers for blue jeans and a t-shirt before catching the eye of a vendor perched next to a rack of gaudy aviators and brand name knock-offs. I found a small collection of sporty shades and bargained down from 5 JD to 3 for the privilege of purchasing them.

At this point I realized the shrinking time between myself and my 1:00 departing bus. I had planned to go to Safeway far from the downtown to secure my vegetables, but decided against it as the distance seemed to span infinity while time slipped towards zero. I glanced around and found a small shop, on of thousands dotting Jordan that offer a relatively identical range of basic fruit and vegetables. I bagged up some cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, bananas, and a few apples before hurrying off to the bus depot, an open scrum of aging minibuses and long-range tourers all open to the first through the door.

I clambered into a bustling bus loaded with what could have been a single expansive Bedouin family plus a few local boys made good and returning to their home for a brief visit. The driver chain smoked the whole way out as half a dozen kids played for the attention and treats of a stoic, noble father. I felt awed by the man, so seemingly self-confident despite the immense burdens that must come from multiple wives and the thriving litter that came of them. He seemed to know himself and his world, even if he didn't know of the larger problems confronting the nervous citizens of modernity.

We blew past the visitors center and chugged into the village of Rum in the heart of a beautifully cloud shrouded cliffs and canyons. I had gazed, fixated for the past twenty minutes as we entered the world of pictures and legends that I had seen in Lawrence of Arabia and countless tourist brochures throughout Jordan. I was lucky to catch a cool clouded introduction to the desert fastnesses of Rum. I clambered around that afternoon, comfortable in long-sleeves without fearing for water or sunscreen.

I had plopped my lot in with the Rum Rest House, an old institution catering to the crowd of climbers and voyagers unwilling or undesirous of the 70 to 100 JD a night experience of guided remote luxurious Bedoin campgrounds accessible only by 4x4 or camel. For 6 JD I had myself a tent, mattress, and bedding for two nights without the breakfast and dinner that mad been quoted to me over the phone. As these had added over 10 JD to the price tag I was delighted for the freedom.

I tackled a small ridge right behind the Rest House and scrambled happily over the red granite and tumbled terrain as the day passed into evening. I was hailed by a Bedouin encampment as I began to hike back from the other end of my wanderings. I took the opportunity to scrape the surface of this simultaneously hospitable and secret society and passed a half an hour sipping "Bedouin Whiskey", a sweet hot tea, with a young man and his younger brother who were just beginning to join their father in the management of his tourist campground and tour operation. I spit out my repetoire of Arabic explaining my doings in Jordan and talking about my family in America. It was a wonderful experience, but sad to see the cigarettes and smoky fire that blighted the tent with their vapors.

I hiked along the desert floor between Jebel Rum and Jebel Um al Ashreen, two of the grandest edifices in Wadi Rum, their massive flanks scored by wind and rain with gashes and chasms for the days to come. I walked the streets of Rum as the sun's light disappeared, seeing the collection of cinder block houses that many of the Bedouin split their time between when not out ordering collections of tourists in the desert. The small school and army bararcks were the biggest buildings to the town though the skyline was dominated by a radio or cell tower and the small minaret of the local mosque. The light was gone from the sky as I turned for home beginning to ponder the source of dinner.

Nearby Nabetean Ruins

A mistake! I should have eaten in the light of day. I found the Rest House closed for the night and turned to the several small shops of Rum to get some heartier provisions. I came back with canned vegetables, hummus, baba ganoush, and white beans in tomato sauce. I then begged a can opener from my fellow campers and spent five minutes under the stars hacking into my prizes with a Swiss Army Knife. Escaping injury on the ragged edges I dug in, using a plastic hummus tub from lunch as a bowl and pieces of carrot and cucumber as spoons. My sole kitchen implement was a all-purpose knife left over from the Dead to Red team provisions. It was invaluable as I sliced into a cold but cheery repast ahead of a cold night made roasting by my layers of spandex ski wear.