No Rum in the Wadi
Another white bus ride took us to Wadi Rum village. The south of Jordan became progressively more rugged and arid. Camels became a frequent sight outside the villages we passed through. We showed our documents as we entered the protected area. We had already booked our camp and were met by Mohammed the owner. Except it wasn’t Mohammed but his brother who took us to the dusty concrete house that was his home and we sat under shade in the yard outside, and waited. And waited. We had planned to do a full day’s tour in the back of a pick up truck, the favoured form of local transport, the next day but Mohammed’s brother though it might be a better idea to do it today. With a special discount. So we agreed. Mohammed’s brother spoke hurriedly on his phone then turned to playing a game that involved lot’s of gunshots and explosions. Or perhaps he was just watching the news. And we waited. At last he said, ‘It’s better if you do the tour tomorrow.’ Something was clearly wrong. Finally Tracey lost her col and I was fearful she was going to say something scathing about Bedouin hospitality. Or worse manhood. I had read they are very touchy on these subjects. Mohammed’s brother became visibly pale beneath his sand blasted exterior and led us to the truck and we drove off to the camp.
Wadi Rum is certainly impressive. Dry jagged mountains rising like islands out of the sea of sand. Inselbergs. At the foot of these mountains were many tented camps for the tourists: Wadi Rum is perhaps the second most popular site in Jordan for visitors. Certainly for the more adventurous non-biblical type. ‘As I tread the verge of Jordan bid my anxious fears subside.’ etc.
Our camp was small, about half a dozen metal framed tents in a row and we were given the end one. It was still around mid day and there was plenty of time for a walk. So we stashed our bags and set off round our mountain. Some small patches of green bushes still grew near the rocks, perhaps surviving on water that tricked down into the sand from inside the mountain. There are a few hidden springs in the area that last most, or all, the year. Next we climbed a small hill of black scree, crossed a stretch of hard sand then up a rocky sandstone ridge where we saw a promising canyon to explore at the foot of a sand bank. The sand was so loose that it flowed as you started down so all you could do was to try and surf the sand. In fact we later saw surf boards for rent. Going up was next to impossible but by flailing and pushing you could make it inch by inch at huge effort. The canyon turned out to be a dead end but we were able t climb up not the rocks and look out across the flat sands of the wadi to the islands all around us. Erosion by wind blown sand, freezing winters and spring torrents has sculpted the mountainsides into extraordinary liquid shapes. From a distance they have the jagged outline that anyone asked t quickly draw a mountain range would produce. But close up they look like peach ice cream left to melt then quickly refrozen. Stare at the cliff sides for a few seconds and they come to life as you begin to see a tangle of monstrous creatures, tentacled vines and staring faces. The only thing that marred the walk for me was the huge pile of plastic water bottles and the entrance to the canyon. It turned out that wherever we were to walk we would come on discarded water bottles. Here there so many that I wondered if the place had once been a camp, or perhaps a spring flowed at certain times and the bottles were there for filling, or perhaps someone thought it was hidden away enough that they could dump a truck load of bottles unseen and save a trip back to the village. During our walk it turned out that Tracey had a strange fear of being trampled t death by stampeding camels; I gallantly placed myself between her and any passing camels, while shooing away the more aggressive beasts with my bush hat.
That night we ate chicken and vegetables slow cooked in a sand pit. And delicious they were.
As we sat after dinner a young man staggered in to our camp. He had been to the village to send an email and decided to return to his camp by a different route, without realising how massive the rock islands were. Many have several peaks linked by high ridges and though it looks as if it might not take too long to get around it is intact the better part of a days walk. The islands in the inselberg archipelago also look very similar at first and it takes a while to recognise the individual peaks from different angles. If it had not been for the number of camps and their lights then the young Pole would have been in serious trouble. As it was he looked exhausted, Mohammed, or one of his brothers, took pity on him and gave him a lift to his destination on the other side of the mountain.
The next day was spent from morning to dusk riding around Wadi Rum in the back of a pick up truck with a young Dutch couple. The man, Klaus, worked in Iraq close to the delta that was once home to Theiseger’s Marsh Arabs; before Sadam Hussein drained it and it became uninhabitable mud instead of marsh. Why Klaus had decided to come to another desert for his holiday seemed strange to me. After Iraq I would have thought he would chosen Paris, Berlin, or the Alps rather than more sand. He also showed a curious interest in camels for someone who spent six months f the year in Iraq. I have always assumed, though perhaps I am wrong, that in Iraq camels are as ubiquitous as try cats. But enough of Klaus and Sophie and on with the description of our day.
We visited T E Lawrence’s Spring; a stagnant seepage out of a cliff base at the top of a high rocky slope. More interesting were the ancient Nabatean inscriptions on the ground floor.
Next a sand dune to stagger up and slide down. Not as good and fine as the one we had found the day before. On to Lawrence’s house. Or rather a pile of stones that could have possibly been Lawrence’s house. Then a rock arch you could climb up to and walk across. The guide told us he was taking us to the biggest rock arch in Wadi Rum, but it was a joke. We could only see the arch silhouetted against the sky n the top of a high mountain. Next was a most interesting little narrow crevice with deep bowls carved into the sandstone floor, and ancient inscriptions and pictures on the canon walls. The place was made to store water and the basins still contained some, each stagnant surfaced covered with a layer of dead black beetles. Our final destination was yet another rock arch, this one was on a rocky outcrop and involved a very steep climb up worn steps cut into the rock and a sideways shuffle along a narrow ledge to then scramble up to the bridge. But it was very photogenic and therefore very popular. We decided not to climb. I was tired and the thought of getting stuck on the ledge in front of the jeering crowd below was enough to put me off. Instead we made a short walk down a beautifully green canyon and we were lucky enough to glimpse the yellow head of a tiny snake before it disappeared back into its hold beneath the rocks. It was the only snake we saw in Jordan.
The following day Klaus and Sophie gave us a lift to Aqaba where we took the big JET bus back to Amman and, after what seemed like hours stuck in traffic, a small local bus to the airport then back to Beirut where I sit in Tracey’s apartment writing this three days later.
Another white bus ride took us to Wadi Rum village. The south of Jordan became progressively more rugged and arid. Camels became a frequent sight outside the villages we passed through. We showed our documents as we entered the protected area. We had already booked our camp and were met by Mohammed the owner. Except it wasn’t Mohammed but his brother who took us to the dusty concrete house that was his home and we sat under shade in the yard outside, and waited. And waited. We had planned to do a full day’s tour in the back of a pick up truck, the favoured form of local transport, the next day but Mohammed’s brother though it might be a better idea to do it today. With a special discount. So we agreed. Mohammed’s brother spoke hurriedly on his phone then turned to playing a game that involved lot’s of gunshots and explosions. Or perhaps he was just watching the news. And we waited. At last he said, ‘It’s better if you do the tour tomorrow.’ Something was clearly wrong. Finally Tracey lost her col and I was fearful she was going to say something scathing about Bedouin hospitality. Or worse manhood. I had read they are very touchy on these subjects. Mohammed’s brother became visibly pale beneath his sand blasted exterior and led us to the truck and we drove off to the camp.
Wadi Rum is certainly impressive. Dry jagged mountains rising like islands out of the sea of sand. Inselbergs. At the foot of these mountains were many tented camps for the tourists: Wadi Rum is perhaps the second most popular site in Jordan for visitors. Certainly for the more adventurous non-biblical type. ‘As I tread the verge of Jordan bid my anxious fears subside.’ etc.
Our camp was small, about half a dozen metal framed tents in a row and we were given the end one. It was still around mid day and there was plenty of time for a walk. So we stashed our bags and set off round our mountain. Some small patches of green bushes still grew near the rocks, perhaps surviving on water that tricked down into the sand from inside the mountain. There are a few hidden springs in the area that last most, or all, the year. Next we climbed a small hill of black scree, crossed a stretch of hard sand then up a rocky sandstone ridge where we saw a promising canyon to explore at the foot of a sand bank. The sand was so loose that it flowed as you started down so all you could do was to try and surf the sand. In fact we later saw surf boards for rent. Going up was next to impossible but by flailing and pushing you could make it inch by inch at huge effort. The canyon turned out to be a dead end but we were able t climb up not the rocks and look out across the flat sands of the wadi to the islands all around us. Erosion by wind blown sand, freezing winters and spring torrents has sculpted the mountainsides into extraordinary liquid shapes. From a distance they have the jagged outline that anyone asked t quickly draw a mountain range would produce. But close up they look like peach ice cream left to melt then quickly refrozen. Stare at the cliff sides for a few seconds and they come to life as you begin to see a tangle of monstrous creatures, tentacled vines and staring faces. The only thing that marred the walk for me was the huge pile of plastic water bottles and the entrance to the canyon. It turned out that wherever we were to walk we would come on discarded water bottles. Here there so many that I wondered if the place had once been a camp, or perhaps a spring flowed at certain times and the bottles were there for filling, or perhaps someone thought it was hidden away enough that they could dump a truck load of bottles unseen and save a trip back to the village. During our walk it turned out that Tracey had a strange fear of being trampled t death by stampeding camels; I gallantly placed myself between her and any passing camels, while shooing away the more aggressive beasts with my bush hat.
That night we ate chicken and vegetables slow cooked in a sand pit. And delicious they were.
As we sat after dinner a young man staggered in to our camp. He had been to the village to send an email and decided to return to his camp by a different route, without realising how massive the rock islands were. Many have several peaks linked by high ridges and though it looks as if it might not take too long to get around it is intact the better part of a days walk. The islands in the inselberg archipelago also look very similar at first and it takes a while to recognise the individual peaks from different angles. If it had not been for the number of camps and their lights then the young Pole would have been in serious trouble. As it was he looked exhausted, Mohammed, or one of his brothers, took pity on him and gave him a lift to his destination on the other side of the mountain.
The next day was spent from morning to dusk riding around Wadi Rum in the back of a pick up truck with a young Dutch couple. The man, Klaus, worked in Iraq close to the delta that was once home to Theiseger’s Marsh Arabs; before Sadam Hussein drained it and it became uninhabitable mud instead of marsh. Why Klaus had decided to come to another desert for his holiday seemed strange to me. After Iraq I would have thought he would chosen Paris, Berlin, or the Alps rather than more sand. He also showed a curious interest in camels for someone who spent six months f the year in Iraq. I have always assumed, though perhaps I am wrong, that in Iraq camels are as ubiquitous as try cats. But enough of Klaus and Sophie and on with the description of our day.
We visited T E Lawrence’s Spring; a stagnant seepage out of a cliff base at the top of a high rocky slope. More interesting were the ancient Nabatean inscriptions on the ground floor.
Next a sand dune to stagger up and slide down. Not as good and fine as the one we had found the day before. On to Lawrence’s house. Or rather a pile of stones that could have possibly been Lawrence’s house. Then a rock arch you could climb up to and walk across. The guide told us he was taking us to the biggest rock arch in Wadi Rum, but it was a joke. We could only see the arch silhouetted against the sky n the top of a high mountain. Next was a most interesting little narrow crevice with deep bowls carved into the sandstone floor, and ancient inscriptions and pictures on the canon walls. The place was made to store water and the basins still contained some, each stagnant surfaced covered with a layer of dead black beetles. Our final destination was yet another rock arch, this one was on a rocky outcrop and involved a very steep climb up worn steps cut into the rock and a sideways shuffle along a narrow ledge to then scramble up to the bridge. But it was very photogenic and therefore very popular. We decided not to climb. I was tired and the thought of getting stuck on the ledge in front of the jeering crowd below was enough to put me off. Instead we made a short walk down a beautifully green canyon and we were lucky enough to glimpse the yellow head of a tiny snake before it disappeared back into its hold beneath the rocks. It was the only snake we saw in Jordan.
The following day Klaus and Sophie gave us a lift to Aqaba where we took the big JET bus back to Amman and, after what seemed like hours stuck in traffic, a small local bus to the airport then back to Beirut where I sit in Tracey’s apartment writing this three days later.