Petra!

A few years ago, the Barron family took a trip through Arizona and Utah, visiting that trifecta of natural wonders—Grand, Bryce, and Zion Canyons. I was, of course, amazed by the Grand Canyon; its vastness overwhelmed me, and the impact of Colorado River, winding through the rocks since time immemorial, provided an instructive lesson in the impermanence of everything. But it was Zion Canyon which really got to me. In terms of sheer spectacle, it placed a distant second to the Grand Canyon; it lacked that single, astonishing view of an unbroken chasm in the rocks. It was, however, infinitely more explorable. We spent three days clambering over hills and wandering through valleys, fording streams and losing ourselves in the endless expanse of mountains.

Imagine Zion Canyon, with its glorious red rocks and incredible vistas, its countless nooks and crannies. Now stick it in the Jordanian desert, and hire an ancient civilization to carve incredibly detailed, impossibly monumental buildings into its cliff walls. That’s Petra. It’s simply unbelievable. Two thousand years, the Nabatean people fought off Rome, controlling sea ports as far south as Aqaba and the Hejaz. They left almost no trace of their culture, their religion, their history. But they are survived by what is truly one of the wonders of the world—this magnificent, “rose-red city half as old as time.” (The poser who wrote those words, John William Burgon, had at the time of the poem’s composition never even visited Petra. When he did go, sixteen years later, he told his sister, “there is nothing rosy about Petra, by any means.”)

But there is something special about the place. You enter Petra through the kilometer-long Siq, a narrow path that winds through high cliffs (rose red!) until you reach the famous Treasury. Here, of course, is where my camera batteries decided to die on me. I had to rely on other people taking photos, so this post doesn’t contain all the photos that I’ll eventually have.

The Siq:

The Treasury:

From there, the path turns to the right, passing an 850-seat theatre carved into the cliff, and a massive complex of tombs. Afterwards, you pass through the Colonnaded Street, visiting the Great Temple, on the way to the center of the old city. Then it’s an hard climb to the top of the mountain where the Monastery is located--but on donkey it’ s only twenty minutes! Yes, that’s right—I put my fate in the hands (er, hooves) of a donkey who seemed to think his objective was to pass the lead donkey at a quick trot right at the edge of the cliff rather than, I don’t know, keep me alive. All in all, however, it was an amazing ride, despite my ripping my pants when climbing onto the donkey. I had a much better experience than either Jason, who had to keep shouting “Shwayy, Shwayy” (slowly, slowly) to both the donkey and the Bedouin boy guiding it, or Tristan, whose donkey didn’t seem up to the task and who had to dismount at least twice on account of orneriness. We walked the last five minutes of the path, and turned right to suddenly find ourselves in front of yet another façade of the cliff—even bigger than the famed treasury. The inside of the Monastery, while cool and shady, wasn’t much to write home about, but the experience of discovering a huge cave-carving on an isolated, rocky mountain is truly unforgettable.

We spent several hours on the monastery mountaintop, climbing out to a magnificent viewpoint that overlooked Wadi Araba desert, as well as Jebel Haroun, the tallest mountain in Petra and the burial place of the Prophet Aaron, brother of Moses. It was by then past noon, and getting uncomfortably hot. We’d already spent many hours in Petra, having gone in at 6:30 that morning. The park had been mercifully deserted in the early hours, but now it was filling up and heating up as well. We elected to catch an early bus and head back.

All in all, the practicalities of the trip worked out fabulously. The eight of us took a three-hour bus ride from Amman to Petra for the equivalent of $6, the night before we went in, and we stayed in an el cheapo hotel for about $12 per person. Despite earning the sobriquet Sleazy McSleaze from the group for, among other things, trying to sleep with Kate, our hotel manager was remarkably helpful in arranging our trip and in getting us return transportation. Our taxi driver spoke beautiful, achingly slow Arabic so we could understand him and respond, and the drive back to Amman was blissfully air-conditioned. Overall, I had the time of my life.