Ancient city, youthful charm

Whereas the two items on my wish list were Petra and canyoning, my mother wanted to do nothing more in Jordan than go to Jerash, the largest Roman city outside of Italy.  Her excitement peaked when she discovered daily chariot races are held in the ancient hippodrome.  Her discovery occurred at a moment we thought canyoning might not be a possibility.  I was discouraged, and in her pitiful efforts to cheer me up she chimed "but Claire, the chariot racing will be so much cooler than canyoning!"  "No, mother, no it will not," came my response.  "Well, at least it will be just as cool," she argued.

Just for the record, I would have won had we made a bet.  While my eyes rolled during a very long 45 minute show comprising of mock fights and 3 second chariot racing, my mom laughed out of embarrassment for ever thinking the show would be worth seeing.

One of many "thrilling moments" in the chariot race show

The city ruins on the other hand were interesting to see.  We arrived at the same time as a few busloads of school aged boys. They ran around the ancient city, playing football (soccer) in the city square, climbing on buildings and taking constant pictures.

My mom and I found a quieter area and took a picture or two ourselves when one boy came up to us and asked "take your picture?"  Assuming he was asking if we wanted him to take our picture for us, I politely declined.  A few minutes later my mother determined it was imperative to have a guide, so she went off in search of one while I sat on an archway overlooking the entrance to the ancient city.

 "Take your picture?," another boy came up to me and asked.  "No thank you," I responded.  Soon after, I noticed one boy after another strategically place himself in front of me, while trying to act inconspicuous, to have his picture taken.  It then dawned on me what they were actually asking.  "Hey," I called to one of the boys standing a few feet in front of me, "do you want a picture with me in it?"  His eyes lit up and he nodded his head.  "Sure," I smiled, "I'll take a picture with you."

Hoards of pre-pubescent boys rushed to my side and passed cameras back and forth, snapping photo after photo.  The session was cut short with the return of my mother with our guide. In their gratitude, I was presented with a poppy to adorn my hair.

Those boys were never too far away, though, as we toured the cobblestone roads.  For when the poppy began to wither in the heat, I was immediately presented with another, and another, and another.

If only experiences like that would happen to me in the rest of the world... but by men who were in their 30's as opposed to boys who were 13.

Wadi: an Arabic term traditionally referring to a valley

Two things.  That's all I wanted out of our entire vacation together.  The first was to visit Petra, and the second was to go canyoning.  My second desire was touch and go for a while during vacation planning, but in the end it was better than I could have wished for.  Abseiling, hiking from 500 feet above sea level to 400 feet below with a delightful guide, water sliding and more.

Fun fact:  after we completed our hike, our driver took us to the top of Mount Nebo (where Moses was given a view of the promised land).  On our descent, the driver stopped the car, put it in neutral and stepped out.  The car then began to go backwards - UP the hill.  I wouldn't have believed it had I not experienced it myself.  But I did.  So now I believe.

the Last Crusade

secluded lunchtime retreat

50 Euros for a tour.  Yes, that's right.  50 Euros.  "But I want to know what I'm looking at," my mother reminded me. I should have made her pay for the entire thing.  Not that the 3 hour tour into Petra wasn't enlightening, it just wasn't worth the price.  Unless... . If the following day's adventure was brought into account, which was due to that 50 Euro tour, the price wouldn't seem too astronomical.

Our guide walked us down the Siq (the hour long entrance to the city) and told of a time when the entire gorge was filled with trees and greenery.  He showed us the artwork carved into the walls, rocks made to look like animals, and boasted of his photography skills as he would take pictures of us without getting another soul in the shot. He gave a brief history of the ancient city as we walked past the enormous cliff buildings.  He explained that most of the buildings were family tombs, and there were many more below the ground which we were standing upon. The city seemingly went on forever in every direction.

When the tour was nearly finished, we stopped at a cave shop to get a drink. There we met the Bedouin shop owner, Ali, who after a friendly conversation invited us to a genuine Bedouin dinner at his house that evening.  We had to decline, due to the Petra by Candlelight tour we had planned (which, in case you were wondering, is not worth seeing).  So we planned on meeting him in the morning and having a genuine Bedouin lunch instead.

8:30 the following morning we piled into Ali's truck after breakfast and drove to his house.  We met his wife and kids, grabbed a few bottles of water and started on our behind the scenes trek into Petra.  The hidden back entrance to Petra provided views of cliff side buildings most tourists never set eyes upon, or know exists. Ali led us up and around all the places we hadn't seen the day before, walked with us into the dark rooms of open cliff buildings, introduced us to more of his family and showed us the cave he grew up in - which is now inhabited by his sister and her family.

Around lunchtime we were joined by a friend of Ali's with a donkey loaded with food goods. Together we hiked around cliffs, down hills, and across stretches of green sagebush, until we were in a private valley surrounded by brilliantly colored canyons and an occasional tree.

Ali (on the right) and his friend

They gathered brush and began a fire on which a beautiful lunch of chicken and vegetables was served with yogurt and flat bread. That along with the scenery made the whole afternoon seem somewhat surreal. But my watch continued to keep reality in check. The time raced forward to the hour when our bus to Amman was scheduled to leave.  I was unable to truly relish in the moments of the carefree Bedouin way of life because of it.

When I voiced my concern, and the current time, we quickly packed up and hurried towards Ali's house.  But even at our quick pace, we were still losing in the race against the clock. Once we reached the center of Petra, knowing we would never make it to the bus on time, Ali commandeered two donkeys and a horse. We all jumped on our respective animals and galloped (as quickly as donkeys will) to our destination... making it to the bus just in time.

Petra in Photos

Journey to the Rose City

Due to the fact that our flights back home were on a Sunday morning in Tel Aviv, and on Shabbat there is a lack of transportation and shortened border crossing times, we decided to shove our visit to Jordan right in the middle of our trip.

The border crossing into Jordan from Elat, a resort city on the coast of the Red Sea at the southern tip of Israel, was highly uneventful. In less than 10 minutes we paid exit fees, had our passports stamped, walked across the border, paid for a visa and had our passport stamped again. It was much easier than I had imagined it to be. But then again, it wasn't the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge crossing which we would experience later in the week.

Just outside the border crossing were a few taxi drivers, ready to take us wherever our hearts desired. One greeted us and offered his services - to take us all the way to Petra, a few hours drive, if we wanted.  We talked things over and decided to take him up on his offer.  But once we reached his car my mom was visibly worried.

"It's not a marked taxi," she whispered to me.

 I stopped and tried thinking of the last time I had actually been in a real marked taxi.  I couldn't remember if I had in Bosnia, I knew I hadn't in Mali, definitely didn't in Kenya, I really don't think I had in Zanzibar, I never did in Russia.  My unresponsiveness made her a bit more nervous... I guess the time it took for me to think of a country I had taken a real taxi in was longer than I had thought.

London!  I had definitely taken a marked taxi in London. 

"Mom, it's fine.  We're not in a Western country... that's just how it is." 

A group of taxi drivers a few feet away also confirmed my statement as our taxi driver pulled out his permit to calm her nerves.

She was still a bit hesitant while I threw our suitcases in the trunk and slid into the back seat of the car. 

"It's just that I've always been told to never get into an unmarked taxi," she stated as she slid in next to me.

Five minutes later we were pulling up behind another taxi... a marked taxi. 

"I've called my son, and he'll drive you up the rest of the way in his car, that way you'll be more comfortable," our driver said to my mother.

"Oh!  No! You didn't have to do that," she replied. I shook my head and got out of the car.

Thaer, our new driver, had us in hysterics the moment we entered the taxi. All Jordanians, we later learned, were natural comedians. He asked me if age made much of a difference in a relationship, because to him love knew no bounds... not even our 9 year age gap, with me being the older of the two. 

"What about your girlfriend you just mentioned 5 minutes ago?," I asked. 

"Oh, her?  Well actually, I just met her last week and she'll be leaving soon, so there'll be plenty of room for another."

He serenaded us with songs played on the radio, changing a word or two as the lyrics went along. "Lady," he sang Kenny Rogers style, "for so many years I thought I'd never find you... I mean this, I really do.  You have come into my car aaaaand made me whole."

So it continued on our ride up to Petra. That is, until one point when my mom exclaimed "LOOK!  A shepherd on his donkey guiding his flock!  Can we stop and take a picture?"

Thaer swerved to the side of the road and slammed on the breaks.

"Claire, get your camera," my mom ordered as we all stepped out of the car.  So there I was, taking pictures for my mother after being given permission by the shepherd.

And the next thing I knew I was sitting on top of the donkey.

"He is not here"

The location my church and I believe Christ's tomb to be is half a mile away from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, outside of the city walls.  The garden tomb, as it is called, is a night and day difference from where the Orthodox patriarch steps in once a year to witness the Miracle of Holy Fire.

Because, even with the Easter revival held in front of the tomb, there was a sweet peaceful spirit there.

Holy Saturday

Once every four years the Orthodox observed Easter lands on the same date as the one marked by the Gregorian calendar.  2011 is one such year, adding more celebrations over one weekend in Jerusalem. In addition to Good Friday and Easter Sunday, the Orthodox also celebrate what is known as Holy Saturday. On that day, Greek and Armenian Patriarchs follow huge processions into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to participate in what is known as the Miracle of the Holy Fire.

Hundreds of people fill the church with bundles of long thin unlit candles.  The sepulcher (which is widely believed to be where Christ was laid to rest) and the patriarch chosen to enter it are both checked by guards to verify that neither have hidden a way to start a fire.  Around 1pm the patriarch enters the sepulcher with two unlit candles, the door is shut behind him, and he kneels on the alter to pray.  Soon afterwards a pillar of light pours down from the sky and sets aglow a rock the patriarch is kneeling before.  The light changes to a fire that is cold to the touch and has a radiance that is different than all others.

The patriarch lights the candles with the fire, exits the sepulcher, and shares the flame to those closest to him.  The fire from that one flame is passed from person to person until the entire church is illuminated.

Due to our Saturday tour of Nazareth and Galilee, we missed the event.  But when we entered the Church of the Holy Sepulcher later that evening it was still filled with people.  Lit candles lined the wall around the sepulcher, and crowds crammed in line waiting to enter it.

In a moment of insanity we decided to join the crowd for a chance to see the inside of the sepulcher as well. We were pushed, we were shoved, and we were used as arm rests.  When we had enough it was too late to turn back; a wall of people blocked us in every direction.

45 minutes of waiting ended abruptly when the door to the sepulcher, which was a mere 10 feet in front of us, closed.

Maybe, just maybe, the light went out.