KeepMoving

Taman Negara

bpenning — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 15:40:00 GMT

Description of the jungle

Picking off leeches

Climbing and almost falling

Getting caught in the monsoon

Coming across the boar

Climbing into the boat to cross the river

Desert

bpenning — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 10:39:00 GMT

My backside was so raw I no longer knew if it was blood or sweat that dripped down my legs. As I gripped the beast between them, I gnawed at my cheek in a vain attempt to hold back a gasp of pain. I felt tears welling up but couldn't succumb to them. It wouldn't be much longer. It couldn't be. I couldn't go on. It was my third day camel trekking through the desert mountains in southern Jordan, and while I couldn't have known it then, it would be my last.
As the sun passed through the horizon, we plodded closer towards our destination: a solitary cave on the outskirts of Petra, Jordan. The intrigue of an ancient rose red city had drawn me there, but it was my current companion who had led me on this new path, this pain inducing path to a two millenia year old desert cave where we were to spend the night.
He was a large boisterous man, and his name was Gasem. He was a descendent of the ancient nomadic desert dwellers who once populated the ancient city. I had met him days before and was invited to spend my nights with his family and my days camel trekking in and out of the city.
As our day's journey came to and end, I could hear the excited screams of Gasem's children.  Once we dismounted the beasts near his ancestral home, Gasem scooped the youngest ones into his arms. His two wives busied themselves with preparing dinner while his older children set up camp. Sore from the ride through rough terrain, I collapsed nearby.
"Tonight, old traditional Arabic food," Gasem announced as he waved me over to his side.
A large serving pan was set on a flat rock in front of him. Inside floated soaked bread in a white, oily mixture.
"It is mansaf," Gasem's brother informed me. "It is the food of our ancestors. We still eat it many times." He smiled and placed a piece of soaked bread in his mouth. "It is very delicious."
The texture of the mixture was comparable to egg yolk with the white substance smelling of sour milk. Besides the bread, it was the only ingredient I could discern. Upon my first taste of mansaf, I realized I was not ready for traditional Arabic cuisine. Each attempt at swallowing was met fiercely with my gag reflex. My stomach tightened as I fought to keep the food in my mouth. I could feel a dozen sets of eyes on me, waiting for a reaction.
"You like?" Gasem asked.
"Mmm. Very good," I heartily responded.
I wanted to vomit. Instead, I followed each bite with a chug of water and tried to focus on the cool desert air against my face. Thirty minutes and one and a half liters later, I felt nauseous yet confident that I had managed through the most challenging meal of my life, my disgust undetected.

The next morning began before sunrise. I lifted my aching body and joined the family for breakfast. Bananas and bread. It was a great relief.
With the arrival of the morning sun, I could better view our surroundings. Gasem's cave was carved into the side of a great canyon with dizzying cliffs jutting up and down on either side. There were no other caves to be seen, no other families beginning their day. I steadily made my way down into the basin and kept walking until Gasem's children's exclamations were just whispers on the wind.  And then, silence. In its absolute form, its overwhelming. And there in the vast desert, I was no longer a part of a whole, no longer a person connected. I was a pinprick of solitude. I felt absolute freedom and vulnerability.
After some time, I headed back to the camp. Upon arriving, I didn't see Gasem or his camels. With sparse english and grand gestures, Gasem's wife explained he had left early, and I would ride with the family in their truck. A cry of relief escaped me. Another day on the camel and I would have passed out from the pain. Gasem must've known.
We packed the truck and left the canyon. An hour later, we stopped in a desert field. Bits of knee-high wheat sprouted from the ground, and the children disembarked to collect it. Gasem's wife handed me an orange, smiled, and pointed to a distant mountain.
"Petra?" I asked. She nodded and repeated, "Petra."
"Is there water?" I asked in Arabic while gesturing to the path I was about to take. Two nalgene bottles clacked against each other in my pack. Two nearly empty nalgene bottles. Having drank most of my reserves to wash down dinner, I hadn't expected such a long journey to await me that morning.
She nodded again and repeated, "Petra."
I waved to the children and began the hike to the distant mountain. As I walked towards it, I learned how deceptive the desert could be. What should have only been an hour hike turned to two hours, then three, and on.
The sun rose higher but the mountain kept its distance. Always just beyond the horizon. I thought of turning around to go back but had come too far. Even if Gasem's family was still behind me, I didn't know in what direction behind me was. My only location markers were rocks and sand and distinguishing between one and another was not possible. The only way to go was towards the mountain.
By the time the sun was directly above, my clothes were drenched in sweat. It was a slight relief from the dry pounding heat, but it didn't last. All it managed to do in the end was to aggravate my raw backside and make it difficult to walk without wincing.
I could hear the nalgenes clacking. Three hundred milliliters was all I had. It had to last. It wasn't long before my mouth ran dry. I had stopped producing saliva altogether. So every few minutes, with reluctance, I trickled a little sip into my mouth to wet it. It was all I could afford to take.
The desert spanned beyond my sight in all directions. I could see no one, hear nothing. Now, I didn't feel freedom. Only vulnerability. I always thought that crippling fear would accompany such a feeling. But I didn't feel afraid, even as hour six and seven passed. Even as the last of my water slipped down my throat and the mountain was no closer. No, what accompanied my vulnerability was a sense of the inevitable. With no real options available, all I could do was move forward.
I kept a tight grip on the orange given to me. Every so often, I would raise it just below my nose and inhale. Its familiar scent promised relief from hunger and thirst. I would wait until the last desperate moment before piercing its flesh. I knew this single piece of fruit stood between me and hopelessness. As long as I held it in my hand, I knew I could go farther.
It was early evening when I passed the cave. It was smaller than Gasem's. In fact, I was surprised I even saw it hiding behind a pile of rubble and rock. Just a hole wide enough for a body to squeeze through. By then, I thought I had mentally prepared myself for a night alone in the desert. Seeing where I would be sleeping though was too real, and I admitted to myself then that my true expectations put me in the city before nightfall. I was too tired to cry. I climbed in while there was still enough light shining to reveal an empty space. No unwanted desert animals or even wanted human companions. Just a deserted cave.
The skin around my eyes and mouth was tight, my body aching for moisture. I rested for only a few minutes before exploring the surrounding area. I had hoped a deserted cave could mean a deserted cistern somewhere close by. It apparently didn't.
The night was cold. Too cold to sleep. I piled on what clothes I had and positioned my backside away from the ground. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night. Hours passed and the silence, once liberating was now maddening. My thoughts alone accompanied me and each one of them ended with the same question mark.
Morning eventually came. The new day upon me and my spirit broken. I emerged from the cave stiff, tired, thirsty. There was nothing else in me but these things. Beaten down to primal necessities and concerns, I walked but didn't think, didn't consider what might happen next. There was no point in it. All I could do was walk.

A few hours passed as the sun continued its climb. I clutched the orange, my nails embedded in its rind. With absolute sorrow, I peeled it and ate a single slice. I had admitted defeat. More now than ever, I wanted to cry. I never could have imagined I would ever have to withhold tears to conserve body moisture.

The mountain looked closer but not close enough. Not close enough to save me. A sob rose up through my dry throat. It ached, then went numb. A continuous sob that relinquished no tears. A pressure throbbed in my temples as it grew. It grew louder until it stopped me from walking. It grew louder into a desperate yell filled with inevitability. The pressure was in my eyes now, in my throat, in my chest. I yelled out all the air from my lungs until all I could do was gasp it back in. My chest heaving and ears pounding. I wanted to sit down, but I couldn't. I couldn't. And then, through the pulsing thud in my head, I could hear something. A rock tumbling down a cliffside. No, it sounded human. I looked around frantically, afraid my desperation was deceiving me. It sounded like a voice, small but close. Even if it had been carried on the wind, it was close enough. Closer than anything else had been. I called out, my voice hoarse and dry. I could hear two voices speaking now, and I ran towards them.
I had passed silently by the facade of rock moments before. It was inconspicuous, just another wall of rock like all the others. But now, it was something more. It was alive with humanity. I scrambled up and over. On the other side were two small children, covered head to toe in ochre dust. They looked up at me and chatted excitedly with each other. The older of the two, a young girl of about nine, approached me, tugged on my shirt, and motioned for me to follow.
"Water?" I asked in Arabic.
The little girl nodded without looking up at me. She led and I followed. The other child, a boy of about six, never let his gaze leave me. Our destination was a makeshift tent of tree limbs and tattered canvas. A sole weathered woman greeted us and gestured for me to sit down under it. Without a word, she brought me a basin of water. I looked up at her, a true desert nomad. Her skin was darkened from a lifetime under the blazing sun, and her smile bared no teeth. I accepted the water and handed the young children each half of my remaining orange.
My voice wavered as I asked, "Petra?"
The woman nodded, pointed out to a distant mountain, and said, "Petra."
My body shook involuntarily. I didn't want to go on if it meant repeating the past day and a half. "Petra." It passed my lips like a man's last word.
The woman shook her head side to side, grabbed my hand, and with her children, began walking towards the mountain. With no words shared between us, we walked in a direction that was different than my original course, a course that as I could see then, had been leading me farther out into the empty desert. By early evening, we reached the outer limits of the city proper. She left me there with a nod and smile and turned back with her children the way we had come.

The tiny desert woman saved my life and to her, I will always be grateful.

The Cave

bpenning — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 09:59:00 GMT

“Everything,” the weathered man said gesturing out across the expanse of red and purple rock, “used to be ours.”

Leaning against the whitewashed stone fence high above the city, I followed his gesture into the valley of sandstone. The sun hung over the distant cliff; its slow descent not yet perceivable, as if it too were waiting with something to say. His name was Shekim; he was a Bedouin camel driver living on the outskirts of Petra , Jordan .

I had arrived days earlier to Petra from the archaeological excavation that first led me to the Middle Eastern country. Stories of this ancient city encouraged images of nomadic desert dwellers and a “rose red city half as old as time”, an ancient treasure hidden from most of the world for thousands of years.

Within minutes of my arrival, I met Gasem, a camel trekking guide and direct descendant of the desert dwellers I had heard so much about. High upon a pair of camels, we traversed the city and out into the desert mountains.

“You like tea?” he asked after several hours climbing uphill.

When I responded in the affirmative, he grunted and said, “We see my family. Drink tea. Ok?”

The group of people that welcomed us in the dry expanse of desert were excited yet not surprised to see their father had brought home a stranger. I had barely touched the ground when Gasem’s small three-year-old son, Achem, climbed on top of the camel, giggling uncontrollably. Gasem’s two wives sat on the ground in the shade breast-feeding their babies unphased by my arrival. After jostling their infants around to pour me a cup of tea, they resumed their positions without fuss. Once Gasem had hugged each child and retrieved his wayward son, we joined his older children in hand-harvesting wheat and pulling water from an underground cistern. It was then that Gasem invited me to spend the next few days with him and his family. I could think of no better way to experience Petra than with the direct descendants of its founders.

My days were spent exploring the sandstone facades of great buildings and caves carved into the sides of the cliffs and getting lost in the old, empty city. At the end of each day, I would meet Gasem and ride his camels to a white city high above the ancient one where the Bedouin now lived.

It was there that I met Gasem’s brother, Shekim, at the whitewashed fence overlooking the historic valley. His English was more comprehensive that Gasem’s, and so I spoke more in depth with him about life in Petra .

“When I was a child, we lived in Petra . Everything was better. Our homes were not hot. They are hot here. And we live far away. We want to live like our ancestors,” he told me with a leaden tongue.

“Well, why do you live here then?” I asked looking back in confusion at the white house Shekim shared with Gasem’s family. I had imagined the allure of modern comfort had caused the transition from caves to free-standing houses.

“The government made us. They only care about tourism and money. They built these houses and make us live here. We cannot live in Petra . We cannot live in the house of our father.”

It was true that tourism in southern Jordan relied solely on Petra ’s ability to charm visitors. Jordan ’s government did not see the potential charm in a living city over a desolate one. It was only then that I realized how barren Petra must appear to those who knew it as it once was: a functional, living city. Now, it was a veritable ghost town. During the day, the only citizens that trekked down into the city proper from their white city atop the cliff were those few trying to secure what they could from the tourist dollar. The rest worked in fields far away from their ancestral home.

The shift in perception was jarring. What Shekim saw when he looked over the staggeringly majestic vision, was a birthright refused, a constant reminder of his powerlessness. What was beautiful to the eye was painful to the heart.

I turned to Shekim to offer a word of apology, but his stare was transfixed on the landscape before him.

“Come! We go now!” bellowed Gasem from inside his home.

Shekim turned to me with a grin crawling across his face. “It is okay Blaine . Tonight, we break the law.”

What “breaking the law” meant had been made known to me earlier that day. The entire family would be sneaking back into the city proper, back to their father’s “house” for the night. Atop the camels, we trekked around the city’s boundaries as the sun passed sharply through the horizon. By the time we reached the cave, the stars and moon already filled the night sky. I felt for the first time, so far away from air and light pollution, what it was like to be bathed in moonlight.

Around the cave’s entrance, the children chased each other and the women chatted loudly as they prepared dinner, while Gasem entertained the youngest ones with his sitar. It wasn’t long before dinner was set before us.

“Tonight, old traditional Arabi(c) food,” Gasem explained to me. A large, serving pan two-and-a-half feet in diameter was set on a flat rock in front of Gasem. Inside was a white and oily mixture with bits of soaked bread floating throughout. Everyone gathered around the pan as the two women passed around plates filled with flat, unleavened bread called shrek. It was customary for a person to tear off a piece of the shrek from one’s plate and use it to pick up whatever food was in the communal dish.

“It is mansaf” Shekim informed me. “It is the food of our ancestors. We still eat it many times,” he smiled as he picked up a piece of soaked bread and placed it in his mouth. “It is very delicious,” he added.

As I placed the food in my mouth, I noticed that the texture was a bit like an egg yolk. The white in the mixture was dry sour milk. Besides the bread, it was the only ingredient my palate could readily discern. My stomach however, was not ready for this old traditional Arabian dish. I was horrified to realize that each time I tried to swallow, my gag reflex reacted. I looked around and saw all the children watching me, smiling, and chewing, and swallowing. Seeing them eat what my body was rejecting made me feel all the more ill and all the more panicked. I couldn’t get sick eating what this generous and welcoming family had prepared. And I knew I could never go without eating it. With my stomach churning, I smiled back at the children, reached for my bottled water and washed down the first bite.

“You like?” Gasem asked.

“Mmm. Very good,” I responded heartily back.

I wanted to vomit. Instead, I followed each bite with a chug of water and tried to focus on the cool desert air against my face. Thirty minutes and one and a half liters later, I felt nauseous yet confident that I had managed through the most challenging meal of my life.

Once the communal dish was removed, Achem crept into Gasem’s lap, as his father resumed playing his sitar. This time, however, he sang in a deep baritone voice that echoed through the night and the children didn’t chase each other and the women didn’t chat. Everyone sat in quiet reverence of the voice and the silence that flowed naturally from its pauses, as though they were notes sung just as loudly. Shekim and I leaned back against a large rock jutting up behind us.

“This is what it was before. This is what it should be,” he said to me.

I couldn’t help but to feel it too. For Shekim. For Gasem and his family. For myself. A way of living lost to us today. A silence that belongs in us, like a pause that keeps on singing.

The next morning was full of activity. Gasem's wives prepared breakfast while the children packed up camp. I didn't see Gasem or Shekim, so I took a short walk to admire the surrounding area. What I hadn't seen before was that the flat area around the cave's entrance was flanked on three sides by a canyon that dropped sharply down around it. The morning sun cast its shadows down the mighty crevice. I peered down into the abyss and filled my lungs with clean, crisp air. It was an image I wanted to remember.

By the time I returned to the family and their cave, it was time to leave. Looking around for Gasem, I noticed that the camels were gone. Confused, I approached one of his wives who informed me with sparse english and grand gestures that Gasem had already returned to the city proper and that I was to go with the family in their pick-up truck. I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to say my thank yous and goodbyes to Gasem in person but relieved that I wouldn't have to ride one of his camels again. My backside was sore and just sitting upright on the ground was impossible. So I happily jumped in the back of the truck with the rest of Gasem's children.

The truck, however, didn't stop in Petra.