Petrified - Jordan

Having first laid eyes on the wonder of Petra, at least in print version, at the age of about eleven, waiting close to 22 years to actually visit the place seems excessive… lazy, even. Well, y’know what they say; never meet your heroes. Not to say that Petra has always been a hero of mine. That would be weird.

I have wanted to see it in real life for as long as I remember though. Finally, thanks in no small part to a spectacular Christmas present from my super lady Jenni, the opportunity arose in the form of flights to Amman set for late March 2013.




So, although the excitement kicked off in December, the actual adventure didn’t commence ‘til March 29, following weeks, nay, months of research which included watching An Idiot Abroad and Karl Pilkington’s assault on the Middle East, reading reams and reams of comments, reviews and tips for exploring Jordan, ruling out sights like Lawrence of Arabia’s Wadi Rum, and booking rooms, cars and tents so we’d have somewhere to lay our head and some way of getting to our bed for the duration of our stay in the Hashemite Kingdom.

Before taking to the air, however, obviously we needed to find our plane. Have you ever tackled the herd of short-haul fliers in the budget terminal of Dubai Airport? It’s a different world when compared to, say, Emirates’ Terminal 3. Think, Karama versus Dubai Marina. It ended up being good preparation for what lay ahead and after a quick tasty McDonalds cheeseburger for dinner on the run, we were onboard awaiting departure.

"Where's our frickin' car?"

A powernap, success at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and an exceptionally poor movie later and we were touching down at Queen Alia International Airport. The equivalent of GBP£20 saw us pay our way into the country, but it wasn’t anything dodgy – everybody had to pay. Unfortunately, our car hire company, unbeknownst to us, had no counter at the airport. After what appeared to be a phonecall to an Irish call centre, we were still no closer to being on our way to the hotel. Eventually, once absolutely everyone in the airport had a long whispering stare at Jenni’s legs, our Hyundai Vendra showed up.



In we jumped, as did two local lads looking for a lift back to their office. We obliged, although Jenni was a tad on edge fearing a car-jacking massacre, but the Jordanians are such a friendly bunch, there was no chance of that happening. There also would’ve been absolutely no chance of us finding our hotel had they not helped us navigate the circles of Amman, jam-packed with motorway speed bumps and no road markings meaning our legal position on the road was completely dependent on where other drivers felt they’d like to be. It was like an evening on a bumper cars circuit, although the object of the game is to avoid being bumped and rammed.

The Boutique Hotel in Amman is gloriously minimalist. A double bed, a lamp and a wardrobe – what more do you need? A shower and toilet down the hall gives it a hostel atmosphere, just with no common room. It’s clean, friendly and great value, and the porter even shouted us breakfast when we left. Seemingly set in a former bombed district of the capital, but a stroll around Downtown the following day proved that that is what the whole city looks like. The exteriors of buildings on top of buildings are grubby, paint-peeling, derelict-looking shells, but on the inside, there are gems waiting to be discovered. Diamonds in the rough, if you will.

"Hmmm... tasty cup!"

We found our way to Farza when in fact we were on the search for Afra, or the other way around. Either way, we scored ourselves some local fodder for breakfast before heading off on a mountain climb in the wrong direction – that seems to be a running theme on my travels. Some serious hills and about 45 minutes later, we turned around to see, really far off in the distance, The Citadel standing atop an entirely different mountainous climb. Damn you Lonely Planet slightly incorrect map of Downtown Amman, you foiled us this time. Not to be defeated, we managed an about-turn and headed back the way we came in search of the Roman remnants of a city once called Philadelphia.

Ever the avid explorers, we cut our own path through the hills and stumbled into what was very possible an ancient Roman latrine. Shortly after, we saw the inside of the entrance gate. Yes! We accidentally sneaked into the complex decaying complex and saved ourselves about a pound. It’s definitely worth a wander around, if even just to pose between the giant columns of Hercules’ temple like Samson. The best of Amman is down the hill and across the road at the Roman theatre, though, where if you’re as exotic-looking as I am, local men ask if they can have a picture with you.

Late-lunch took us to Hashim restaurant to test out the country’s best falafel. A quick discovery revealed that I don’t like falafel in any country, but the local experience of street eating, added to a chili dip we haven’t been able to recreate since, made it acceptable. Checked out the Duke’s Diwan then – luckily that was just another name for a historic townhouse with a charming old man showing us a timeline of Jordan’s capital through the years. Day turned to evening, every leg muscle was burning from the many hours of navigating the city’s hills, and we were every bit deserving of the overpriced beers we gulped in Rainbow Street’s Cantaloupe Gastro Pub where we watched the sun set glistening off the colourful mosques all around us. The stroll back along Rainbow Street threw up some great vibrant boutique stores and cafes that came alive at night, but being so exhausted, we didn’t give it the time it deserved… and we had a long drive ahead of us the following day. 

Yup... still don't like falafel. But Hashim Restaurant is still a top pick.

Armed with our trusty map of the King’s Highway and a full tank in our Vendra, off we set. The closest thing we had to a sat nav was a quick study of Google Maps in the hotel the night before, and navigating out of the city is almost impossible, which is one of the reasons we ended up, wrongly, on Desert Highway hoping we were still pointed in the right direction. After passing through Na’ur, our next point of reference was 50km away in Dhab’a, and then Qatrana another 50km further down the road. Somehow we hit them all and made our right turn across country, onto King’s Highway, amazingly. To celebrate our accomplishment, we visited Mu’tah and its panoramic restaurant (overlooking ancient crusader stronghold Karak Castle – kinda like King John’s Castle in Limerick viewed from the Curragower). So impressed were we, that we then actually went to Karak where Jenni was the exotic one being snapped with local gals. They demanded their picture not show up on the Facebook or the Twitter. Harlets!

Though we were still cruising around wide-eyed and full of excitement, we hadn’t even scratched the surface of Jordan’s wonders and adventure yet. And with that, we set our compass to point us in the direction of Petra, over mountains to Mazra’a, through army check points at Safi and Fifa on the Dead Sea Highway (“Great!” we thought: we wanted to go in a straight line south and we were now on our third different highway spanning the breath of the country), and getting sidetracked to Tafila just off King’s Highway (how did we end up back here?) where the locals weren’t as used to seeing “the white man” so they generously shared some spit on our windows as we rushed through the backwater.

Our humble abode in Little Petra

Beer and fire - man's greatest

But we prevailed and the saliva assault was no more than ‘cause for a nervous laugh of disbelief as we rolled into our digs for the evening in a Bedouin camp outside Petra called The Rock – a tent that was, ironically, the most expensive accommodation we paid for all trip. Ishmael showed us around. “This is where you sleep. This, where you sit. Welcome.” Nice chap. I shall call him Ishy and he will be my Ishy. We took a wander into Wadi Musa – which means Valley of Moses, but is really just a tourist trap with extortionate prices. Still, we needed to eat, but we headed back to the campfire outside our tent before too long and knocked back some local Petra beer (it was actually called Petra beer). That was one of our later nights… we were in bed by about 9:30pm.

The Treasury 

Finally, our day in the ancient city of Petra arrived. It’s oxymoronic to call it a “new ancient wonder of the world”, but what can you do? The bones of 50 quid to pass through the gates is grotesque, but again, what are you going to do about it? Turn around and go home? Of course not. You’ll begrudgingly hand over your JD50, as locals hand over their JD1, and you all walk the same path. But my lord, what a spectacular path it is.

Once you’re thoroughly overwhelmed by the Treasury at the end of the Siq, you’ll inevitably start to make your way through the old Nabataean city etched into the rock faces, and to be honest, despite the grandeur, you may feel slightly cheated. Gypsys selling donkey rides and cheap jewellery, hoards of snap happy tourists all trying to get the same shot, and large refuse bags full of garbage chucked inside the front door of each building along the Street of Facades – similar to when the rubbish men went on strike in Moyross in my youth and all household waste circled the big green (ah, to live in the ‘Eighties). What does the JD50 pay for if not to at least keep the place clear of rubbish sacks? 

Catching our breath after hike to High Place of Sacrifice

Put the trash out of your mind, though, and forfeit all your energy in the climb to the High Place of Sacrifice. Views are breathtaking, much like the hike, and the climb down the other side unravels more and more gems a thousand times better than the tacky main street of souvenirs. You’ll inescapably find yourself strolling along the Colonnaded Street in Petra City Centre imagining the debauchery the cobbles must have seen centuries ago. I believe it was a lot. In spite of the cost to get in, the gypsies and the rubbish, nothing could take the glean off what was essentially a life-long dream come true. Raynor, you’ll have years to do it, but it’s going to be pretty damn hard to top that gift.

Again, shattered, we trudged back through the network of carved edifices, back to the entrance gates – though not on horseback as we did on the way in – and weary feet were in serious need of some shoeless breathing. And what better place than the oldest bar in the world, allegedly – Cave Bar, occupying a 2000-year old Nabataean rock tomb, where a couple of beers and an orange juice racks up a bill in excess of JD20 thanks to service charge and a 26 per cent out-of-towner tax.

Time for tent followed at The Rock where my buddy Ishy (remember him?) and his sister-wife – I can’t remember her name, but besides being a host at the Bedouin campsite, she also moonlit as a toilet attendant selling loo paper within the grounds of ancient Petra – were preparing for the night’s feast… lamb cooked underground in a mud pit. Surprisingly delicious and enough to send us to bed dreaming of how tasty leaping lambs might be if we lived off-grid.

Alas, as we rose the next morning, it was time to leave the south and head along the Dead Sea Highway on the way to Madaba, with a stop or two along the way, first of which was Lot’s Cave. You know Lot, right? He was Abraham’s nephew. He fled to this cave from Sodom or Gomorrah – the two most sinful cities in the Bible that were smite by God. His wife turned into a pillar of salt for looking back on the destruction of the cities. Then, ‘cause his life wasn’t weird enough, his daughters spiked and raped him before bearing his sons/grandsons. Now I haven’t read the whole Bible, but I think that’s the only incestuous tale in there… unless you believe the whole “We all came from Adam and Eve” thing, ‘cause then it’s be unavoidable. Anyway, the cave was grand. As was the Dead Sea Museum – we bought some natural loofas and soaps, ‘cause we live a rockstar lifestyle.

We rode the coast of the Dead Sea and followed signs to the Dead Sea Panoramic Complex where there was another museum-type thing, nice restaurant and sensational views. We immediately decided that, should we bite the bullet, that’s our wedding venue – get saving folks! On we ventured, further north in search of the Baptism Site, where good old JC got dunked by John the Baptist. We found it, hugging the border of Israel, though as we’re not allowed re-enter the UAE with an Israeli stamp in our passports, and they were trying to charge us another JD25 to look closer, we skipped touching the same ground as Jesus at that point.

John's decapitated head

An about turn in the car saw us heading for Mount Nebo – that’s the mountain top that Moses saw the Holy Land from, though he’d never step foot in it himself. That’s a bit sad, but Momo was a happy man his peoples got there. Not quite content that we’d had enough religion for the trip in us (I’m as shocked as you that there was so much Bible-stuff in Jordan) we aimed the reliable Vendra in the direction of the mosaic city of Madaba and the inventively-named Mosaic City Hotel. The website isn't great, but the hotel is well good, innit. From there we explored the city, climbing bell towers, manoeuvring through under-church tunnels and checking out statues of John the Baptist’s head. Strange thing to have around these parts, but poor old John was beheaded in Jordan, at the behest of Herod Antipas ‘cause his susceptible daughter asked for the head on a platter. What a mean wench. But yeah, Madaba is a beautifully colourful town – if not a little bit derelict in some parts much like the rest of the country – and a great point to launch some Dead Sea adventuring or relaxing from, which we got to planning as we sat with a steak (could’ve been a llama steak) and our sixth beer of the holiday in Haret Jdoudna. Can we just have a quiet day tomorrow please?



An early start would send us back on our way to the Dead Sea, book in hand (I picked a Ross O'Carroll Kelly classic, The Shelbourne Ultimatum) ready to float in the water reading like I’d seen in pictures from anyone who has ever been to the lowest point of dry land on Earth. We shelled out JD25 each to get into O Beach Club and it was worth the sheckles, if for nothing more than to have fresh water showers to wash the extreme levels of salt off after the bobbing in the "sea" (it's actually a lake). Word of advice, and I know everyone pees in the sea (right?)…don’t! Those natural oils and unnatural levels of salt will work their way inside and sting like a demon. Apart from that, the experience is a blast, and baking in the sun covered with mud smeared all over is, interesting. Washing it off your face afterwards, though, is like the weeing experience, except in your eyes and mouth. I felt like I’d been maced by nature.

The best find of the entire trip was undoubtedly Wadi Mujib, which we found after a half-day at O Beach. The reserve a little further down the Dead Sea’s coast surprised us with a 2km wet trail climbing over rocks and rapids hidden in the cliffs on the way to a waterfall. The fact you have to be over 18 should be a warning, it’s not easy, but if you can manage the climb and drag through the rapids, fully submerged at times, it’s a reward in itself. It’s the cheapest and shortest trail in the reserve and if we do organise an event after the wedding, it’ll be for guests to do that. There’s another early warning for you. We caught the sun setting behind the Judea Mountains (across the Dead Sea in Israel) as we headed back to another early night in Madaba ready for one last day of exploring after a good night’s kip.

Double selfie... 'Gram that shit!

Tackling the traffic in Jordan for one more day, we drove towards the Syrian border, though not quite getting there, deciding to stop in Jerash. If you’re nervous about international tensions in the region between the likes of Syria to the north or Israel and the Palestinian Territories to the west, maybe you can skip it, but it’s got some of the best Roman ruins I’ve seen (outside of Rome), with relatively no tourists. Hadrian’s Arch being the most impressive. It was so complete that Jenni commented: “Why would I ever need to go to Rome? I’ve pretty much seen what it’s like now.”

On that note, let’s hit the road, shall we? Move along now… nothing more to see here. And back to Queen Alia International Airport we went, withered, worn out, but truly travelled the joys of Jordan. An unforgettable experience in the most spectacular of company.

Next up: Sri Lanka… I nominate you. Give us all you got!


More pictures, bigger captions here.