“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.
